


Fractured

by shadesofhades



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Barebacking, Canonical Character Death, Dark fic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2019-07-15 11:15:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16061969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofhades/pseuds/shadesofhades
Summary: After an attack on Frank, Trapper and Hawkeye try to heal the wounds left behind.Frank may be the victim, but it's Hawkeye that breaks.Does no good deed go unpunished?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please read all tags. Author will not be held responsible for individuals that have either not read or chose to ignore the tags. 
> 
> The non-con is pretty glossed over and used more as a plot point, but there are other consent issues. If this bothers you, please do not continue.
> 
> That out of the way, I'm leery about posting WIPs as I've recieved negative comments in the past that have discouraged me, but I'm really excited to share something new and this fandom needs more fic.
> 
> I have mixed feelings about this fic, so please be kind.

The Swamp is quiet, which after the way Frank Burns had been hanging off of Hawkeye like they were friends -- well, much more than friends, but he was trying to block those memories out -- it's a blessing. He is even starting to welcome the distant sounds of shelling again, as much as the idea of bombs falling on innocent people can be. Mostly he is just happy that he can finally let out a breath without Frank breathing it right back in.

Trapper, the traitor, had passed out over an hour ago on top of his blankets with his boots still on, leaving Hawkeye alone to entertain, and eventually fend off, a very inebriated Frank. 

He glances over at Trapper, face down on his cot, with his mouth open and his curly hair pressed flat against his face and he can't bring himself to stay mad. He is bone-deep exhausted himself and it was only Frank's seemingly endless amounts of nervous energy that had kept him from joining Trapper. 

Getting drunk had not been a priority tonight, in fact, other than a quick belt he and Trapper had planned on retiring early and sleeping until Radar finally sent for them. Hawkeye didn't even have the energy for the hanky panky he had been fantasizing about all day and he was quite fond of both hanky and panky, especially when Trapper was involved. 

But Henry had other plans for them.

Henry had been convinced that inviting Frank to their midnight Swamp social—and pretending for an evening that Frank might actually be human—may stop Frank from pursuing the current charges against him and Trapper that were currently occupying a troubled little corner of Henry’s mind and the Swamp’s stove.

Henry’s plan had definitely worked. They had not even finished their first drink before Frank had cozied up to the two of them like they were old friends. A whole drink later had Frank nervously laughing at jokes he was the butt of, but he seemed none the wiser that he was unwanted and that Hawkeye and Trapper were just humoring him. 

In some ways, Frank is easier to manipulate than Henry; Hawkeye had wasted no time when he found himself stuck in Korea in figuring out the easiest way to get what he wanted out of his C.O.

It had not taken more than two glasses of gin before Frank had thrown the paperwork in the stove and threw his arms around their shoulders like a few drinks somehow made them friends for life.

They were well prepared to stop humoring him after that, but there is something hilarious about the fact that when Frank had a few too many he likes to spill secrets they could use against him later. 

If Frank was ever captured by the enemy they wouldn't need to torture him for information, they could just pour a couple shots into him and sit back and relax. In ten minutes he would be telling them his deepest, darkest secrets that he hadn't even known he had.

Tonight's secrets had been rather juicy ones -- the juiciest coming only about forty minutes ago, not long after Trapper had passed out. Frank had sat next to Hawkeye on his cot, slipped an arm around his waist and confessed that sometimes he thought about kissing him. 

There had been a long moment wherein Hawkeye had been struck temporarily speechless and Frank had wrapped a second arm around Hawkeye and leaned in like his silence was somehow permission to give into those feelings. He had pulled his face out of the reach of Frank’s and wondered whether he should let it happen and pray for it to end quickly, or wrestle his way out of Frank's arms and flee to Trapper’s cot for safety, when a funny look suddenly crossed his face. A few seconds later Frank was letting him go and excusing himself to the latrine and Hawkeye had never been more relieved in his life.

If he is really lucky, Frank will have forgotten about the whole incident by the time he gets back and will hopefully pass out.

Hawkeye lies back on his cot, his limbs heavy with exhaustion and gin. It doesn't take long for his eyes to grow heavy as well. It had been a long day of surgery and he knows it won't be long before sleep claims him. Maybe he can be sleeping by the time Frank comes back -- although, Frank may take that as an invitation to molest him in his sleep.

He forces himself to open his eyes.

Frank is taking an awful long time. It's possible he passed out in there.

Hawkeye grins to himself. 

He contemplates getting up and embarrassing the hell out of Frank, but he's tired and honestly torn about whether having one over on Ferret-Face is worth the effort of getting up.

He's just decided sleep is winning when the echoing bang of a close range gunshot just about stops his heart. 

Before he can even fully comprehend what he's doing, he's on his feet, his brain screaming that somewhere out there Frank is drunk and probably stupid enough to get into trouble. Hell, he could do that sober, so what chance did he have soused?

He's out of the Swamp and in the compound in seconds, his boots clomping heavily against the dirt as he traces the path between his tent and the latrines. 

Frank isn't there, but it doesn't take long to find him on the ground behind post-op (what the hell was he even doing there?), his stomach churning at the scene. It's obvious what happened the instant he lays eyes on Frank and he tries hard to get his feet to move forward, to act, but his legs have frozen up and he feels numb. He's the first one to the scene -- he's a goddamned doctor, why can't he move? -- he needs to do something. He feels sick and suddenly sober because as much as he dislikes Frank, he doesn't want someone else to see him like this.

His pants are around his ankles, and Hawkeye sincerely hopes that maybe Frank had just decided post-op looked like a great place to piss, but he fears not all the blood on the ground is from the bullet wound in his lower thigh.

Fuck, there's so much blood spilling out, and he knows he needs to stop the bleeding -- because Frank's head is back against the metal side of the hospital and he looks vulnerable and ill and in no shape to help himself -- but Hawkeye's hands are shaking and his legs are so unstable he knows he'll fall if he tries to walk. 

His eyes slide away from the blood and towards the small gun still clutched in Frank’s hand, the moonlight glinting off the tiny pistol making it look cold and hard. He recognizes it in an instant as Frank's favorite little toy to flash whenever he's feeling threatened. He had often thought that Frank was more likely to shoot himself than someone else with that thing, but he had never actually imagined --

“Hawkeye?”

It's Frank's voice, small and pathetic, that brings him back to the harsh reality before him and finally forces his body into action. There's recognition and hope in his eyes as he turns his head in Hawkeye's direction, and he actually finds himself feeling guilty and regretful about tricking Frank into thinking they were friends.

“I shot myself,” Frank says miserably when Hawkeye finally kneels down next to him, blood instantly soaking the knees of his pants. “I tried to shoot him, but I got me.”

Fuck. This might be funny at another time, in another place, but the wound is pouring blood and Hawkeye presses down on it with his bare hands, trying to stem the blood flow and avoid thinking about the fact that Frank's boxers are around his ankles, caught up on his boots.

“What happened?” Hawkeye asks, willing his voice to be steady as he looks up at Frank's face. He looks terrified, his eyes wide and his already thin lips pulled even thinner as he presses them together against the pain.

He swallows down the bile in his throat as he takes in the red marks on his neck and face, some of which are already beginning to turn black and blue, and tries not to think about other bruises that may be on his body, about what they might mean because he _can't_. 

“Snuck up on me, the fink!” Frank says, his eyes looking wild and feverish. “Couldn't face me like a real man.”

There's blood still flowing through his fingers and as hard as he pushes, as hard as he tries to stop it, it just seems to keep coming. Maybe Frank hit an artery -- he isn't sure how long it had taken him to actually find Frank, to actually _do_ something, but it had felt like an eternity and maybe it was too late maybe he couldn't save him.

Would it be his fault? He had gotten Frank drunk, he had taken too long to find him, he hadn't acted soon enough. 

He feels nauseous.

“Frank, I --”

He isn't even sure what he was planning on saying, but he's relieved when Klinger interrupts holding a rifle and shouting,

“Stop! Who goes there?”

“Klinger,” Hawkeye says urgently. “Frank’s been shot. Help me get him into surgery and go wake up Trapper.”

“Is the intruder still in camp?”

“I think it was one of our own,” Hawkeye tells him grimly.

Thankfully, Klinger doesn't question that assumption, just slings the rifle over his shoulder and scurries towards them.

“Frank,” Hawkeye says softly as he stares down at his hands, covered in Frank’s blood. It seems like it's slowing down finally, or maybe just that Hawkeye has calmed down, but he starts to feel worry creep back in when Frank remains silent.

He glances up at Frank's face. Sometime in the last few minutes Frank had passed out, his head lolling to the side and Hawkeye hadn't even noticed. 

He realizes with sickening clarity how serene Frank's face looks, like he was dead to the pain he must feel, and it's only the steady thrum of Frank's heart pumping blood through his wound that keeps him grounded.

\-----

Henry comes in the room, gloves snapping as he tries to pull them off. He tosses them aside and immediately reaches for the ties on the back of his gown. He gives up after a moment of fumbling and turns to Hawkeye.

“Do you mind?” Henry asks, and Hawkeye obliges, working at the little knots. Whichever nurse tied these strings had been a little over zealous, but it works to distract his mind away from Frank, finally resting in post-op. 

It had been easy enough to remove the bullet, and as bad the wound had looked outside when Hawkeye had felt panicked and sick, it was a clean shot without much damage. In all honesty, he probably wouldn't have needed Trapper's help at all, but the feeling of him by his side helped calm him and Hawkeye was grateful to glance up and see him across the operating table.

The bullet wound hadn't been bad. It was the other injuries that worried him. The injuries that Henry had been attending to now that Frank was awake. 

Henry had been on post-op duty when they had brought Frank in and Hawkeye had never been so relieved to see him. Henry had wanted to examine Frank himself, and Hawkeye and Trapper had happily stepped aside. As anxious as he was to know about his other injuries, he didn't really want to _actually_ know. It would make the whole situation too real.

Trapper hadn't shared his worry over Frank. He had disappeared a few minutes ago to the latrine with a vague word about possibly being back. As much as he often times hated Frank, the idea of Trapper being so callous bothers him. He had always cared before, why was this different?

“How is he?” Hawkeye finally gives in after he manages the first tie and begins work on the second. 

“Looks worse than it is,” Henry says, relief obvious. 

The last tie proves easier and Henry is shrugging off the gown after a few moments and tossing it in the laundry.

“He'll be sore for a few days, but he'll live,” Henry tells him. “The real question is whether we'll be able to live with him.”

“No lasting damage?”

“Honestly, I've seen worse from the food in the mess tent. He's already talking a Purple Heart. If he hadn't shot himself, I wouldn't have even called it an injury.”

“But he was…” Hawkeye stumbles over the word. “He was raped.” 

They haven't actually said it yet, even though they had all known what they were looking at and now that he had the situation suddenly felt different, like the whole scene has taken on a sharp edges.

“Yes, but there's nothing _physically_ to heal. Just bumps and bruises,” Henry says gently, giving Hawkeye a strange look. “Maybe I should call Sidney. I've never had to deal with anything like this before.”

He paces and rubs his hand over his eyes, and Hawkeye just sits back on the bench and watches, unsure.

“I mean, who in their right mind wants to do _that_ to a man? It just doesn't make any sense.”

Hawkeye's mouth goes dry and his stomach twists. He has been on both the giving and receiving ends and he knows from experience how good both can be, but what had happened to Frank isn't the same. Is Henry somehow implying that men like him and Trapper belong in the same category as Frank's rapist? 

When they had dealt with the homosexual Private a few months ago Henry hadn't seemed prejudiced then, but maybe his true colors were finally coming out.

Or maybe he had simply meant rape -- who would want to _rape_ a man? 

He’s probably reading too much into Henry's words. Anxiety and exhaustion are starting to get the best of him.

“Hawkeye?” Trapper's voice startles him out of his thoughts. When had he come in and sat down next to him? 

He glances over at Trapper. He looks tired, and Hawkeye remembers that he had probably only slept an hour before they had woken him for surgery. It had been a grueling day by normal standards, and worse with what happened to Frank. 

They were all overwrought.

“C’mon. You could use some sack time.”

Hawkeye is about to protest, but Henry interrupts before be can even get a word out.

“He's right, Pierce. You got post-op in a few hours. I would cut you some slack but I'm stuck redoing the duty roster now that we're a doctor short.”

“I've been awake so long I've forgotten what dreams are,” Hawkeye says in agreement.

Trapper puts his arm around his shoulder and brings him close. He goes easily, his body beginning to go limp with fatigue. He knows how intimate a picture they make -- they're always too close -- but Trapper's arm is warm and comforting and Henry doesn't say a word.

“Trap, take me to bed,” Hawkeye demands sleepily.

He doesn't need to look over to see Trapper's grin, he can hear it in his voice.

“Why, Hawkeye, I'm a married man.”

“Come on, guys,” Henry says, “I got enough to deal with without you two making jokes.”

They take that as their cue to leave, but when they're back in the Swamp and Hawkeye's settled onto his cot, sleep doesn't come for a long time.

\-----

Hot Lips is strangely absent from Frank's bedside over the next few days. Hawkeye had expected her to fawn over him like a worried mother, but even as she had made her rounds in post-op that morning she hadn't spared Frank more than a glance at his chart and a, “How are you feeling?” before she had moved on.

Frank, who had perked up at the sight of her, looked dashed as she wandered to the next bed, and Hawkeye had just sighed and patted his shoulder in silent pity.

It was Hawkeye that had come to visit in his off time, shoveling oatmeal in Frank's mouth and tucking the blanket around his shoulders, listening to Frank's whiny voice as he complained about the pain in his leg and the pain in his backside.

“Frank, you're a pain in _my_ backside,” Hawkeye tells him, but there's no real bite behind it, and Frank doesn't even look offended, which throws him for a loop until Trapper interrupts.

“And how's our favorite patient today?” he says as he clicks his pen closed and slides it into his pocket. 

Frank preens at the attention.

“Oh. I'm feeling much better, Trap.” Frank says nervously, looking up at Trapper with wide, hopeful eyes. 

Hawkeye feels vaguely guilty that he knows Trapper will be back to making Frank's life miserable inside a week, and wonders if he'll be able to stop himself from doing the same. The habit comes far too naturally for them, and he doesn't know if it’s one he can easily break. 

Or maybe what Frank needs is a little normalcy, for someone to pretend everything is alright, even when they all know it's not. Trapper's always been very good at carrying on like everything is going to be okay. Hawkeye had always found it comforting when things were the toughest, but this entire thing is uncharted territory for them all.

Trapper offers Frank a wide smile and moves to sit down on the bed next to Frank's, his shoulders and bare arms brushing Hawkeye's as he settles beside him. 

“Frank,” Trapper starts, putting the clipboard in his lap as he stares at Frank. Frank looks unsettled by the look. Hawkeye doesn't like it either.

“Henry thinks it might be about time for you to go back to the Swamp.”

“But that's not fair!” Frank protests with a whine. “I'm still hurt!”

“We need the bed, Frank. There's a push on and Henry said we're expecting heavy casualties for the next twenty-four hours.”

“Of course we are,” Hawkeye says bitterly. “I guess it's too much to ask for that they stop playing toy soldiers for a few days while we're a doctor short.”

“I'm just the messenger, Hawk,” Trapper reminds him. “I don't like it any better than you.” 

Trapper's hand subtly reaches down to grip his wrist, fingers curling around it as his fingertips brush against his pulse point. It serves to calm him, and he lets out a sigh. 

“Well, next time you come bearing bad news, kept your yap shut.”

“You ought to grab some sack time while you can. I can help Frank,” Trapper says, dropping his hand away to grip the clipboard again and stand up.

“Oh no. I'm not going back to that rat-infested cesspool you call a tent. No, siree Bob. I'll probably get an infection and die!” There's an edge of mania to Frank's voice as he grips the bed like that will somehow stop Trapper from moving him. “That's what you two want, isn't it? You're just pretending to be my friends until you can get rid of me. Well, I'm not falling for it, Buster.”

“Frank,” Trapper says with a long suffering sigh. “You can go sleep in the minefield for all I care, but you can't stay here.”

“Besides,” Hawkeye says with a smirk. “If I wanted to kill you I could have just smothered you with a pillow last night while you were sleeping.”

Frank is incensed, his whole face wrinkling up in a deep frown that starts at his hairline and travels past his chin. No one does disgruntled weasel quite like Frank Burns.

“I don't find that humorous in the slightest.”

“Relax, Frank,” Trapper tells him. “How ‘bout I take you to Hot Lips’s tent?”

“Oh,” Hawkeye says with a flirty grin. “Nothing like a little brass rubbing to heal what ails you.”

“Yeah, Frank, the two of you could spend all night saluting each other.”

Frank scoffs at them. 

“I'll have you know the relationship between Major Houlihan and I is strictly of the professional nature.”

“That's a profession I could get behind,” Hawkeye says with a suggestive eyebrow raise to Trapper, who laughs.

Frank’s nostrils flare, and Hawkeye realizes that Frank is no longer trying to cling to his bed and instead glaring at the two of them. Well, at least some normalcy has been restored between them.

“You're just jealous,” Frank accuses.

Neither of them can really deny they wouldn't mind a go at Hot Lips, but truthfully, their relationship always seemed like it was on borrowed time. Frank doesn't seem to understand that eventually Margaret would get tired of playing second fiddle to a woman Frank didn't even love and find someone else.

Hawkeye glances over at Trapper, huge grin on his face, and feels a little pang. Sometimes he wonders if he'll feel the same way one day.

“C'mon, buddy,” Trapper says to Frank as he wanders to a wheelchair abandoned in the corner. “I'll give you a ride over. On the house.”

\-------

Neither of them expect Frank to limp into the Swamp less than an hour after Trapper dropped him off, silently crossing the tent over to their still, pouring himself a drink and downing it in one go.

Hawkeye meets Trapper's eye behind Frank's back. Concerned hazel eyes stare back at him as Trapper motions with his head towards Frank.

Hawkeye shakes his head. He had spent the last few days feeding Frank and making sure he took his daily walk. He’s done his time. It's obviously Trapper's turn. Nevermind that Trapper had been the one to actually pry Frank out of post-op.

Trapper raises his eyebrows, eyes wide and pleading as he stares back over at Hawkeye. Trapper is clearly getting out of his depth very quickly with the Frank situation. He's never had a lot of patience or sympathy for Frank Burns and it is probably about to finally run its course.

Hawkeye's never exactly had an abundance of sympathy for Frank either, but this situation is testing his resistance to Frank's often pathetic disposition.

Alright fine. It’s his turn.

“Trouble in paradise, Frank?”

“What do you care?” Frank mutters, taking another long pull from the glass.

“I care that you're drinking all our gin,” Trapper interjects.

“Gin? Is that all you two ever think about? Drunken debauchery?”

Trapper shrugs with a nod. 

“We can't help but notice that you’ve put away a few glasses yourself, Frank.”

“I've had a tough week,” Frank says, a challenge in his voice. “I'm entitled.”

Hawkeye stands up and pulls the drink from Frank's hand. 

“No one is going to argue with you about that, but you're drinking like…. Well, us,” Hawkeye tells him.

Frank's hands shake and now that he's close Hawkeye can see the fact that Frank's eyes are glossy in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol.

“C'mon, Frank,” Hawkeye says gently, hand coming to rest on Frank's shoulder. “What happened?”

Frank purses his non-existent lips together and looks first at Hawkeye, then at Trapper, sitting at attention at the side of his bunk, his eyes never leaving Frank even as he sips at the glass in his hand.

“Margaret threw me out,” Frank says miserably. “She says I'm not a man anymore.”

He takes the glass from Hawkeye's hand and Hawkeye lets it go willingly. Frank drowns it in one go and Hawkeye knows that pretty soon Frank will be hanging off them and singing, but at least that would be an improvement to this.

“It's not my fault that some degenerate _pervert_ decided to do _that_ ,” Frank tells Hawkeye bitterly.

“As a degenerate pervert I don’t like the idea of being lumped in with that creep,” Trap says, as he stands up.

Hawkeye catches his eye, and tries not to look amused. Frank's upset enough without them mocking what he went through. Although, that's easier said than done. Neither of them have ever been very good at impulse control when it comes to torturing Frank.

“Come on, Frank. Drink your worries away!” Hawkeye says with a smile as he grips the hand holding Frank’s glass and steadies it to pour him a fresh drink. Frank's eyes widen as he looks down at their joined hands and up at Hawkeye, and he thinks for a moment that maybe he's overstepped a boundary here, but Frank's hand stops shaking before he offers Hawkeye the tiniest of hopeful smiles.

“It works for us,” Trapper says, and Hawkeye's eyes are drawn back to his and the hand that holds his glass out in a toast.


	2. Chapter 2

“Hawk,” Trapper says quietly across the Swamp. Hawkeye ignores him and rolls over.

“ _Hawk_ ,” he tries again and Hawkeye squeezes his eyes shut and pulls the pillow over his head.

“Hey, Hawkeye,” Trapper finally gives up on whispering and Hawkeye groans and presses the pillow against his ears.

Trapper's boot hits him in back after a moment, sending pain radiating through his spine and Hawkeye finally rolls over, glaring daggers across the Swamp.

“What?” he hisses, then he hears it, a whimper from Frank's bed and the sound of someone giving a startled gasp.

“No,” Frank moans.

It started not long after the attack, and although Hawkeye isn't privy to what they entail, he could recognize the sounds of nightmares. He's had enough of them since he got to Korea.

Sometimes they will stop on their own, but most days it takes one of them shaking him awake or just sitting by his side with soothing words for them to stop. If Trapper is waking him up, it's probably the latter. 

“It's your turn,” Hawkeye says before he rolls back over and shows Trapper his back.

He can hear Frank sob softly in his sleep, and Hawkeye feels a stab of pity before he reminds himself that this is why Trapper woke him up, because Hawkeye is too much of a pushover.

“No,” Trapper whispers. “I got the last one, this one is yours.”

Hawkeye rolls over to stare at him. He can see how red Trapper's eyes look from just the moonlight coming through the mosquito-netting, but he doesn’t feel bad about it because he knows his own are probably just as bad. Neither of them have slept well since Frank's attack, although he's sure Trapper doesn't lie awake and feel the same guilt and fear he does.

The idea that something like that could happen to a man has never really crossed their minds, but now, it's just another thing to be scared about. If it could happen to Frank, how likely is it to happen to someone who goes out looking for sex with men? 

Trapper has never really gone out of his way for a quick tryst with an enlisted man -- truthfully, Hawkeye isn't sure Trapper wants any guy that isn't him -- but Hawkeye has never really been against it. But now the idea of being vulnerable with a stranger bothers him. Before, although he knew it was dangerous, it had been thrilling in its own way, but now...

Frank hadn't gone out looking for a quick fuck to scratch an itch -- Frank was perfectly happy pretending he didn't have an itch. He had just been too drunk and stupid to fight when someone else decided he was an easy target -- and it was their fault. Frank had often preached temperance on deaf ears, but Hawkeye and Trapper had encouraged him with friendly words to get him so wasted he could barely stand, let alone fight someone off.

“No, we said every other night -- it's still your night.”

Trapper groans and Frank cries louder.

“C’mon, Hawk, I'm exhausted,” Trapper tries, but Hawkeye promptly throws up shields around his heart. He has already fallen for it once and it isn't happening again.

“Me too. I didn't sleep at all last night. At least you got a few minutes in tonight.”

“Stop,” Frank whimpers again and Hawkeye has to try hard not to look in his direction because knows if he does he'll give in.

“Fine,” Trapper says after a moment wherein the only sounds in the tent are Frank's sniffling little cries.

He rolls back onto his side to stare out the mosquito-netting at the quiet camp, listening to the sounds of Trapper climbing off his creaking cot to sit by Frank's side.

There's a soothing,

“Shh, Frank. It'll be okay. I'm here,” from Trapper before Frank's cries quiet down and there's nothing but the barely there shaking of his cot to give away the fact that it's happening at all.

He doesn't know if Trapper holds Frank's hand like Hawkeye does, or if he sometimes thinks about climbing into bed with Frank and taking him in his arms, but he does know that, despite his protests, he won't be sleeping again tonight.

\-----

It takes weeks to finally find Private Sutton, but it's a small camp, and Private Sutton, as it turns out, has a big mouth. 

As much as everyone in the camp hates Frank, maybe the thought that a rapist could be among them (especially someone who would do _that_ to a man) made them uncomfortable, or maybe it was the threat Henry had issued of court-martialing them right along side the guilty party if someone didn't come forward and knew. 

It really didn't matter why he does it, but eventually, Sutton’s bunkmate betrays him to Hawkeye and Trapper in the O.C.. They don't question his motives, just feel lighter that after three weeks of wondering they finally have Private Sutton in front of Henry and Hawkeye thinks maybe this will close a door for Frank.

“Why'd ya do it?” Trapper asks. 

Frank hasn't yet arrived, and Henry's preoccupied with a pile of paperwork on his desk, so it's just the three of them -- Hawkeye and Trapper lounging in chairs and Sutton standing between them like a prisoner -- staring at each other in the silence. 

Sutton offers him a smirk.

“That weasel Burns had it coming. Haven't you ever wanted to humiliate someone?”

“Sure,” Hawkeye says casually. “We're constantly looking for ways to humiliate Frank: like putting chocolate pudding in his underwear while he sleeps or hiding a pancreas under his pillows -- but you went well beyond a few harmless pranks.”

“He deserved it,” Sutton says adamantly. “My pop always said you should take an eye for an eye. Major Burns humiliated me in front of my buddies, and then had the nerve to say I wasn't half of the man he was. If Major Houlihan hadn't been there I would have shown him then.”

“No, instead you waited until he was too drunk to fight you back,” Trapper says with an air of disgust. He's wearing a frown as he glances at Hawkeye.

“You know that I hate to agree with Frank about anything, but he was right. You're not half the man he is.”

And of course Frank would choose that exact moment to limp through Henry's door, a small hopeful look in his eyes as he looks at Hawkeye. Hawkeye shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

There's a mix of emotions on Frank’s face as he looks around the room. There's fear as he takes in Sutton, his hands visibly shaking and for the briefest second Hawkeye actually wants to grab his hand and hold it like he does during Frank's nightmares. Then there's the glee that suddenly takes over as he stands at attention and Henry looks up at him. Glee, Hawkeye realizes, because Frank had never gotten to actually court-martial someone before and for once Henry is on his side.

“Is this the scum responsible?” Frank asks, raising his nose to look down it at Private Sutton. There's a barely there shake, but it probably wouldn't be easy to detect if Hawkeye hadn't spent so much unwilling time around Frank. Still, his voice comes out mostly steady and Hawkeye is amazed because if it were him facing his attacker, he doesn't think he could be so calm.

This kid did something unspeakable, yet Frank is glaring at him the same way he does any other man in the outfit that isn't up to snuff, which is pretty much anyone that isn't Margaret.

“McIntyre. Pierce,” Henry says when he finally looks up from the paperwork on his desk. He's wearing a grim expression that Hawkeye has only seen a few times and is usually followed by the shit hitting the fan.

“Yeah, Henry?” Trapper asks.

Henry grimaces.

“I appreciate you bringing me Private Sutton, but if you don't mind….”

Hawkeye puts his feet up on Henry's desk and leans back in his chair.

“Of course not, Henry. Go ahead. Throw the book at him,” Hawkeye says, suddenly feeling as gleeful as Frank.

“I mean, get out,” Henry says pointedly.

Hawkeye climbs wearily to his feet, as does Trapper. He had hoped he at least got to stay for the show after all the work they did with the set up.

Trapper holds out his arm for Hawkeye. 

“Buy you a drink, beautiful?”

Hawkeye flips his hair back dramatically and Trapper offers him a crooked grin as Hawkeye loops his arm through Trapper's.

“Queers.”

They turn around and no one looks more surprised than Private Sutton that the word slips out of his mouth.

“Oh, _we're_ queers, are we?” Hawkeye starts. Trapper is trying hard to pull him out of the room before he can actually start a fight about this, but it’s too late. The gauntlet has been thrown. “After what you did to Frank, you call _us_ queers? Oh, that's rich.”

“C’mon, Hawk,” Trapper says, and although their arms are no longer looped, he has his hand on Hawkeye's arm trying to drag him out the door before he says something they will all regret. 

“We do a little harmless flirting,” Hawkeye continues and he can feel Trapper tense next to him at the words, but Sutton’s eyes are wide and Hawkeye can't stop himself now, his mouth has a mind of its own sometimes. “You outted yourself as someone who would have no problem _fucking_ a man,” Hawkeye spits. 

Now he's done it. Henry looks appalled, Frank looks like someone knocked the wind out of him and Private Sutton looks like he's hoping Hawkeye will burst into flames from sheer force of will.

“Hawkeye,” Trapper says calmly, but his voice is a little unsteady and Hawkeye instantly starts to regret what he just said.

“Let's go,” Hawkeye tells him, grabbing Trapper's arm and leading him out. “I could really use a drink.”

\------

“I really thought you were gonna say somethin’ stupid back there, Hawk.”

Trapper's watching him over the edge of his martini glass.

Hawkeye takes a long swallow of his own. It burns going down in the familiar way, and he can already feel his muscles start to uncoil. 

“I almost did,” he admits.

“I know Henry’s a pushover, but Frank would have been more than happy to march us right to HQ to make an example outta us.”

Hawkeye grimaces as he drains his glass. He hasn't actually told Trapper about Frank trying to kiss him. With everything that happened, it had sort of slipped his mind that it's something Trapper would probably want to know.

Pouring himself another drink, he wonders if Frank still might turn them in, just because he was afraid of facing his own desires. It sounded like something Frank would do.

“I don't know,” Hawkeye starts slowly, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Maybe he wouldn't.”

“That fight knock a screw loose? Frank “I would snitch on my own mother” Burns? Not turn in a pair of degenerate queers?”

He sits down in the chair next to Trapper's cot and leans back. Now would probably the best time for a full confession.

“Frank tried to kiss me.”

It hangs in the air for a long moment and Trapper looks utterly flabbergasted before his face shifts from jealousy, then quickly over to amusement. 

“When?” 

“Right before he was attacked. You had already passed out and Frank was blitzed and sitting on my cot with me and…”

“And what?” 

“And he said he wanted to kiss me.”

Hawkeye shrugs and takes a drink.

“But you said he tried,” Trapper says with a frown and that jealous looks rolls back around again.

“He did. Put his arms around me and tried to plant one right here,” Hawkeye says, tapping his finger to his lips. 

“And then?” Trapper asks, looking impatient.

“I turned my head away and Frank got up and left.” Hawkeye takes a long drink and gives Trapper a disgusted look. “I can't believe you'd actually think I'd let Frank Burns kiss me.”

“You let me kiss you. How do I know you're not walkin’ ‘round kissing other guys?”

That's a low blow and Trapper knows it. Yeah, before he and Trapper had gotten serious and were still kidding themselves about what happened being a one (or five, or ten, but who's counting?) night stand, he had kissed other guys. But it had mostly been in Tokyo or Seoul -- he would deserve a section 8 if he thought kissing strange guys in an Army camp was a good idea -- and Frank had never crossed his mind as a candidate for his affection (kisses for comedic effect sure, but no one was really safe from those).

“Well, gee, it couldn't possibly be because I lo--” he manages to catch himself on the word at the last second, “like you or anything.”

Trapper is staring at him, but the jealousy of earlier is gone now, replaced by a wide grin.

“You can say it,” he encourages.

Hawkeye sighs. They haven't said it, not sober at least, and there's still the smallest fear there that it might change something between them. This thing had meant to be a fling, but the longer it went on, the less he wanted it to end. If he says it, it won't change the fact that Trapper will eventually go home to his wife, it will only change them.

“Fine,” Hawkeye says snippily as he rises to his feet to find another drink. “I love you, alright? Even though you think I'd willingly kiss Ferret-Face.”

Trapper grabs his arm as he walks past and takes Hawkeye's glass from his hand to set them both next to the still before he pulls Hawkeye down to his bunk. He goes willingly, and he knows even before Trapper’s palm finds his cheek that Trapper is going to kiss him.

It's not much of a kiss, but the weather is still somewhat warm and they're exposed to the whole camp if anyone looked their way through the mosquito netting.

A slow, wide grin spreads across Trapper's lips as he pulls away and Hawkeye can't help the way his heart beats a little faster.

“I love you too.”

“Why don't we go someplace more comfortable?” Hawkeye suggests.

“Motor pool?”

“Supply tent is closer.”


	3. Chapter 3

He isn't sure why he thought seeing Private Sutton court-martialed would somehow change things, but he's disappointed when he's lying in the Swamp and he hears the familiar sounds of Frank’s whimpering.

It has been a week since Sutton’s sentencing, but nothing has changed short of the weather which had been drifting closer to freezing every night. He and Trapper had drawn down the tent sides two nights ago and they were already looking for extra blankets and clothes for the cold nights.

Of course, the extra blankets don't mean much when when it's likely he or Trapper will be spending all their time shivering in Frank's chair this winter.

Trapper's at post-op duty, so tonight the Frank nightmare watch is solely his. He gets up with a sigh, pulling his blanket around himself like a cape, goosebumps raising on his bare legs as he pads across the Swamp and over to Frank's bedside.

“Frank,” he says softly, reaching out to shake his shoulder.

He comes awake very suddenly, jerking away from Hawkeye's touch and even in the dim light Hawkeye can see the way he shakes.

“It's alright,” Hawkeye says soothingly. “It's just me.”

“Pierce?” Frank says, his voice wobbly and weak.

Hawkeye reaches out for his hand and Frank lets him, Frank's palm clammy beneath his.

They sit there for a long time, until Frank's breath evens out and the sweat starts to dry on his skin. It's cold, but Hawkeye wraps the blanket tighter around himself, his knees bumping against the side of Frank's cot as he shivers.

“It was just a dream, Frank,” Hawkeye says quietly, his fingers pulling away from Frank's to rub soothing circles across the back of his hand, his fingertips studying the tendons under his soft skin, feeling the way they roll over his bones before he moves down Frank's long fingers. 

He may be an incompetent doctor, but Hawkeye can't deny that he has the long thin fingers of the surgeon. It's too bad he doesn't have the brain to match.

Frank makes a soft noise at the touch, and Hawkeye glances upwards, to where the soft moonlight that creeps around the tent’s closed flaps illuminates Frank's features. He’s so used to seeing Frank as some kind of ferret-faced, self-righteous hypocrite that he's startled to see how clear blue and soft his eyes look as he stares at where their fingers touch.

“Hawkeye,” Frank says quietly, his voice sounding pinched and as strange as the nickname coming from his lips.

“What is it, Frank?” Hawkeye asks, curiously.

He doesn't expect Frank to pull his hand away and suddenly reach up to yank Hawkeye's face down to his. The kiss is so sudden, Hawkeye barely has time to stop himself from falling onto the bed before their lips are touching.

It's not a long or particularly passionate kiss, but Hawkeye knows before he even breaks away that, for better or worse, something is about change between them. 

“Frank,” Hawkeye says, trying to keep his voice steady, even as his heart beats with uninvited surprise. “What are you doing?”

Frank pulls away, but he doesn't let go of where he fists the front of Hawkeye's blanket; instead his hand tightens, and even in the low light Hawkeye can see that his knuckles are turning white and feel the tremors that run across his nerves.

“I tried to kiss you that night, but you turned your head,” Frank says, his eyes falling to Hawkeye's lips. 

He licks them self-consciously, and can't help but notice the way Frank's eyes follow the movement. 

“You were drunk. Can you honestly tell me if you had done it, that you wouldn't have regretted it in the morning?”

Frank presses his lips tight together. 

“That's the reason I left,” Frank says and Hawkeye feels like someone has punched him in the gut. “If you had let me do it, I would have never left the Swamp. I wouldn't have been --”

Frank doesn't need to finish that thought because Hawkeye is all too aware of what happened after. Hawkeye leans down to shut him up, Frank's lips closed tightly until he realizes that he's being kissed. 

He can't take back what happened to Frank, he can't ever make it right, but he can do this, and maybe it will buy them both a small peace of mind. 

He tries not to think about Trapper, about how much fuller and softer Trapper's lips are compared to Frank’s; it's not really fair to compare the two, not when he knows that kissing Frank is betraying Trapper's trust.

Frank's fingers tangle in his hair as he opens his mouth, tongue pressing against Hawkeye's, as he drags him down on top of him, and he finds he can't fault his enthusiasm. He once heard Margaret refer to him as a “lipless wonder” and Hawkeye is beginning to understand why. 

If he makes love as well as he kisses, it's no wonder Hot Lips hasn't thrown him back.   
Frank breaks the kiss to mouth against Hawkeye's neck, his hand pushing between them to rub between Hawkeye's legs. He tilts his head to give Frank better access, his dick growing hard against Frank's hand even as his mind screams that this has already gone too far, that a few kisses were one thing, but now Frank is pushing a hand into his boxers and he needs to stop this. 

He pulls away, knees on either side of Frank’s thighs, his dick half hard in Frank's hand. They're both breathing hard, tiny puffs of white appearing between them, but Hawkeye isn't cold. The wool blanket is draped around his shoulders and falls around them both like a cocoon of body heat. 

“We can't do this,” Hawkeye protests, but it sounds weak, even to his own ears, when Frank's hand strokes him.

“McIntyre’s in post-op all night,” Frank says in confusion, and that reminder is not what Hawkeye needs right now as he bucks into another man's hand.

“Frank,” he gasps out, his eyes closing tight against his will as nimble fingers slide his foreskin back as he strokes down the shaft. Hawkeye can feel himself being swayed. “You're going to regret this later.”

“I've wanted to do this for months,” Frank confesses, but there's edge of mania to it as adrenaline pumps through them both.

“I've fantasized about what it would be like… inside you,” his voice drops low at the last part, and Hawkeye can barely repress the shiver that runs down his spine. He's not sure if it's pleasure or revulsion or somewhere in between, but he knows as soon as those words leave Frank's mouth that he's not going to say no. 

Hawkeye leans down and kisses him, their chests pressed together as Frank frees his hands so he can push down Hawkeye's shorts, fingers gripping his ass and forcing his bare erection against Frank's clothed one. 

“Fuck,” Hawkeye groans against Frank’s mouth.

“You have a filthy mouth,” Frank complains, but it seems half-hearted, his mind obviously too occupied with trying to get Hawkeye's clothes off. 

“Hang on,” Hawkeye says against Frank's mouth before he pulls away and drops the blanket from his shoulders.

A shiver runs through him as the cold air hits his overheated skin, and it makes him pause momentarily before he forces himself to climb off Frank, the ground feeling like ice to the bottoms of his feet. 

“Where are you going?” Frank asks with a worried whine. 

Hawkeye doesn't answer, just steps towards his footlocker and the tube of surgical jelly he knows is at the top.

When he turns and glances back at him -- his hair disheveled and his cock pressing out the front of his boxers -- he thinks that Frank is no Trapper, with his curly hair and crooked smile that Hawkeye has never been able to resist, but he's got a certain quality about him that isn't entirely unappealing. Physically Frank is fine, its the mental incompetence that lies beneath that bothers Hawkeye so much.

Under normal circumstances, this would have never gone this far, Hawkeye would have not even let Frank get a surprise kiss on him, but this is hardly normal. 

Hawkeye hands him the tube before he strips off his shirt and kicks his shorts off his feet, noting that Frank eyes him hungrily, the tube in his hand quickly dropped in favor of pulling Hawkeye closer.

He stumbles forward before he loses his balance and ends up sprawled across the bed. Frank wastes no time reversing their previous positions, with Hawkeye flipped on his back and Frank's knees on the bed, boxing him in. 

This position isn't unfamiliar to him, but with Trapper it had never felt like one of submission, but it’s clear, as Frank's fingers grip his wrists and his mouth meets Hawkeye's, that submission is what Frank is asking.

He's never been good at playing the part of quiet obedience. He enjoys getting fucked, but he's far from the meek little kitten that so many men want him to be. Trapper understood that, even enjoyed that Hawkeye gave as good as he got, but it’s obvious that Frank is still stuck in that heterosexual mindset. 

He can't imagine Hot Lips in this position under Frank, though. Maybe that's why even though he couldn't deny his attraction to her, it would never work. She enjoys ordering men around and frankly, so does he.

Maybe submission isn't what Frank wants or expects, maybe it's what he _needs_. Hawkeye can't even pretend to know what Frank is thinking, but Frank always enjoys reminding everyone of his rank and the power the army granted him, and to suddenly realize that rank and experience is meaningless under the physical power of a pissed off teenager? He can't imagine how weak he must feel after that, to have your entire world view shattered in just a few minutes. 

He forces himself not to fight his natural instincts, going limp beneath Frank, and he's rewarded by sudden distance as Frank removes his shirt and pushes his shorts down. His erection springs free, and even in the dim light Hawkeye can see how red and swollen it looks, the head glistening with pre-come. Frank is by no means well-hung, but the size and shape aren't bad and Hawkeye finds anticipation coiling in his belly as Frank moves, parting Hawkeye's legs so his knees can settle in between them before he pushes his shorts down his thighs and maneuvers them past his knees and down his legs.

They disappear into the darkness of the Swamp as Frank tosses them aside, wasting no time as he fits their now naked bodies together and closes his mouth over Hawkeye's. 

He's nearly breathless from Frank's kissing, short gasps escaping him as his fingers slip over the short hairs at the back of Frank's neck, his cock hard and rubbing against Frank's belly, looking for relief. 

If someone had told him yesterday he'd be rubbing off on Frank today, he probably would have slugged them, but right now the only thing he can think about is desperately finding friction even as Frank's erection slips wet and hot alongside his balls and the base of his cock.

“Fuck,” he pants with a gasp when Frank's mouth leaves his, and he isn't sure if it's an general exclamation or if it's an order, but Frank seems to take it as the latter, fingers finding the underside of Hawkeye's knee before he pushes it forward towards his chest. He feels momentarily exposed as Frank's cock, hard and weeping, slips down the crack of his ass, then there's a sharp pressure that steals his breath as Frank grips his dick and presses forward.

“Frank, stop,” Hawkeye says urgently, and Frank's eyes go suddenly wide as they meet Hawkeye's. “It doesn't work that way with guys,” Hawkeye explains quickly, trying to back up on the narrow cot and away from the pressure at his entrance.

“What do you mean?” Frank asks, sounding annoyed, and Hawkeye can feel the way he shifts back and forth in discomfort, his erection bobbing.

“I mean you can't just put it in! There's a process.”

Frank looks clueless and Hawkeye lifts himself up onto his elbows so he can look around for the tube of lubricant he brought over. He finds it stuck under his left thigh, where Frank had abandoned it a few minutes previous.

Hawkeye peels it from his skin and hands the tube to Frank. 

“Start slow, one or two fingers.”

Frank frowns, but undoes the cap to squeeze some of the jelly onto his fingers before he reaches between Hawkeye’s legs again.

He spreads them wider, trying to draw his legs back to make the intrusion easier to bear. It's far from easy, though, when Frank jams two fingers inside him without any preamble.

“Fuck,” Hawkeye yelps and wills himself not to tense up, trying to force steady breaths between clenched teeth. “Frank, your bedside manner could use some work.”

“Are my hands cold?”

Frank's eyes are wide and he looks genuinely concerned. Hawkeye might laugh if he wasn't currently in pain.

“I said slowly, Frank!” 

“Well, it's not like I've done this before,” Frank says with a sniff, a small pout tugging at the corners on his thin lips. 

“It's just like giving a prostate exam, only… sexier,” Hawkeye tells him, his head falling back against the pillow as Frank's fingers begin to ease in and out of him, finally getting the hang of what he's supposed to be doing. 

The sudden pain had caused Hawkeye’s erection to wilt, but he reaches down, trying to concentrate on the steady in and out of long fingers as he strokes himself back to full hardness, his thumb flicking over the tip to rub pre-come down the shaft. His breath is beginning to come in ragged gasps when Frank finally realizes what he's doing and knocks his hand away to take over.

He's not particularly skilled, but it doesn't take long before Hawkeye is thrusting into the circle of his fist and grasping at the scratchy wool blanket that lies beneath him. The friction burn of it against his bare skin is the only thing that keeps him from losing it far too soon as he squirms and presses back into the fingers inside him.

“Frank,” Hawkeye groans, the word almost lost in his panting, erratic breaths, “If you keep doing that I'm not going to make it to the main event.”

Frank immediately stops, his fingers falling away from his dick and pulling free from the cradle of his body. There's a sudden sense of loss that he doesn't have the time to mourn before Frank is gripping his thigh once again and pushing it back, opening Hawkeye up so the to the head of his cock pressed against his hole. 

Hawkeye is pretty sure he doesn't use more of the surgical jelly before he begins to push inside, but the burn he feels at the intrusion isn't so painful that he can't bear it. At least he's been fucked enough times in the last few months by Trapper that taking Frank's cock without the aid of extra lubricant is almost easy in comparison, and there's enough residual slickness that he's sure at least Frank won't tear something.

Swallowing hard, he grips the blanket beneath him and forces his hips forward, a sense of relief flooding through him when Frank's hip bones meet his own and he knows there's no more to take.

He closes his eyes, and wills Frank to understand that he needs a moment before they can continue, and he doesn't know if Frank really understands, but he pauses to lean down down and capture Hawkeye's lips.

The kiss is wet and hot as their tongues slide against the other's, and it works as the perfect distraction as Frank begins to pull out, the head of his cock the only thing that remains inside Hawkeye's tight ring of muscle before he slowly sinks back inside. 

Sweat breaks out across his chest and his eyes water, but the pain he felt before lessens ever so slightly as Frank thrusts all the way inside again.

A small gasp falls from his mouth, and Frank's is there to swallow down the noise as his hips begin to work, slowly pistoning into the tight cradle of Hawkeye's body. 

Heavy, irregular breaths mix with the steady creak of an overloaded cot and seem to echo in the darkness of the Swamp. There's a fleeting moment where Hawkeye's mind drifts to the empty bed just to the left, but the thoughts are consumed by the continuous movement of Frank's hips and the cramping of his leg muscles as Frank pushes his thighs closer to his chest, seeking to bury every inch of himself inside of Hawkeye.

He no longer feels the discomfort of before, his hips canting back to meet each thrust as pleasure begins to build, working slowing up his body to pool behind his balls.

It's obvious that it takes every ounce of strength that Frank has to hold himself above Hawkeye, his lips planting sloppy, opened-mouth kisses against his neck and jaw as his thrusts grow erratic, and Hawkeye has just enough sense about him still to slide his hand between their bodies and jerk himself off.

It's hard and fast now, Hawkeye's back feeling raw as his naked, sweat-slicked skin skids across the coarse wool beneath him and his pulse beats hard under the attention of Frank's mouth, bringing blood to the surface.

Neither of them are going to last much longer, and there's a worrying groan that fills the silence between their mingled gasping breaths as the cot sways under stress, but it's nothing more than a cliff note in Hawkeye's mind as he feels his balls begin to tighten and his orgasm build to an apex. Frank's moaning in his ear seems to reach a crescendo before everything goes suddenly silent, even as his mouth opens wide with a shuddering gasp that he feels more than hears, and his seed spills over his own fingers in hot streaks.

It's only a few more unsteady thrusts before Frank comes too, his cock buried deep inside of Hawkeye as he fills him with a liquid heat that spreads through him like wildfire, a short whine punctuating the air before he goes limp. 

They don't move for a long time afterwards, both of them quiet as the night and the war seems to go on around them, oblivious, the distant sound of explosions only slightly louder than the rats that scratch and scurry across the wooden floorboards. 

His muscles ache as Frank finally pulls free, taking with him the part of Hawkeye that still cared about the atrocity they just commited. It leaves, rejected from his body like semen Frank leaves behind. He knows it must pool onto the blanket below, but the sweat is cooling on his skin and he's too tired and cold for it to matter that he'll need it for warmth. 

He shivers as Frank's body heat leaves his, but the loss is momentary as Frank reaches for the blanket and pulls it around their shoulders. Then the heat returns, pressed snug against his back as Frank pushes him onto his side and fits their bodies close together, front to back as he lays tiny intimate kisses along the base of his skull.

He lets out a shuddering breath at the barely there touch before Frank's arms circle his body in a tight embrace.

Frank is asleep within moments, but Hawkeye loses track of the hours that he lies awake after, his mind adrift in space as he listens to the far off sounds of war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up soon. Shit is about to go off.


	4. Chapter 4

Hawkeye had said he loved him, and Trapper had believed him. While he doesn't have any reason to think it might have been a lie, Hawkeye also told him he would never willingly kiss Frank Burns, and yet the evidence in front of him says they had done a lot more than kiss.

His chest hurts at the idea.

Trapper clears his throat, but neither of them move where they are pressed together in Frank's cot. It's possible, he supposes, that they could have their shorts on still, but the way the thin Army blanket is riding up Hawkeye's thigh tells him it isn't very likely. 

Frank is curled around Hawkeye, his face buried in his neck, his front pressed flat against Hawkeye's back and Trapper thinks he might be sick.

He clears his throat again, and this time Hawkeye stirs, but he doesn't do more than press in against Frank and thread his fingers through the hand on his hip to drag it to his chest.

The blanket slips down a little and Trapper can see without a doubt how naked Hawkeye is.

He swallows hard and finally he can't take it anymore, his blood feels like it's boiling in his veins. Hawkeye has said he loved him, said he wasn't interested in other guys anymore, yet here he is. It’s like a slap in the face.

He grabs the edge of the blanket that covers them and rips it away. 

Hawkeye bolts upright at that, and even Frank opens blurry eyes, trying to figure out why he is suddenly cold before Hawkeye's sudden movement jostles him from the cot. Trapper gets an eyeful of something he never wanted to see as Frank lies sprawled on the floor of the Swamp looking clueless for a moment before his eyes find Trapper’s and go very wide.

Frank scrambles half under his cot to hide, but he doesn't need to because Trapper is already holding his hand out to block out Frank’s nudity and looks over at Hawkeye.

Hawkeye doesn't look back. He's staring off towards the door with the guiltiest expression Trapper has ever seen and if he has any doubt that sex had been involved last night, that look confirms it.

“Hawk?” Trapper says, and he doesn't mean for it to sound desperate, but his voice catches and the familiar nickname sounds so unsure. Hawkeye lowers his gaze to the floor and doesn't even make the barest of attempts to hide his naked body. 

Trapper's eyes drift down to where he can see come dried and flaking on Hawkeye's bare stomach and thinks of whether it belongs to Hawkeye or Frank or if both of them contributed. Had they… ? Had Hawkeye let Frank fuck him last night while Trapper was in post-op? Was this even the first time?

He feels queasy at the idea.

He can't look at them anymore, at Frank attempting to disappear and Hawkeye making no effort at all.

He drops Frank's blanket to the Swamp floor and walks out.

He's honestly surprised when Hawkeye finds him in the mess tent twenty minutes later, freshly showered and dressed. 

Trapper doesn't even look at Hawkeye when he slides into the seat across from him, just continues to stare into the cup of coffee that has long since gone cold and begun to congeal. 

“Buy you a drink?” Hawkeye says, his voice light, but when Trapper looks up his eyes look dark and troubled.

Yeah, well they should. He isn't exactly feeling so light and cheery himself.

“I don't wanna talk to you right now.” 

He stands up, coffee cup in hand ready to march out when a hand on his wrist stops him.

“Trap,” Hawkeye says, and this time the bravado is gone. It's just one word, but he can hear the hurt and worry in it, and it cuts him right to the quick. He has never been good at resisting Hawkeye's brooding side.

Trapper deflates.

“Yeah, okay,” Trapper says, trying to keep a neutral tone.

He yanks his wrist from Hawkeye's fingers, a little of the coffee spilling over the side and down his pant leg and Hawkeye flinches.

“Not here,” Hawkeye says quietly. “The Swamp?”

Trapper frowns at that. The Swamp no longer feels like the safe haven it used to. Before Frank had just been an annoying roommate and now…

But Hawkeye is staring up at him with wide, desperate blue eyes.

“I fucked everything up,” Hawkeye says.

“It ain't the only thing you fucked,” Trapper returns, but he sets the coffee cup back on the table and leads the way back to the Swamp.

Frank isn't there when they enter, and Trapper feels relieved as his eyes drift over to Frank's bed. Is he ever going to be able to look in that corner of the Swamp again and not want to hit something?

“He's gone,” Hawkeye says knowingly as he pours two drinks.

Trapper accepts it, but doesn't do more than sip at it. Rotgut never sits well on an empty stomach and he's pretty sure this place is already giving him an ulcer. 

“Where?”

“My guess is AWOL. He thinks you went to get Henry and turn us in. He cried like a baby for ten minutes before I finally gave up and took a shower.”

“After everything we've been through he thinks I would do that to you?”

“That's what he would do. Frank's the most paranoid person I've ever met. I wouldn't be surprised if he already went and told Henry on himself just to tell his side of the story first.”

Hawkeye downs the whole glass in one go and immediately pours himself another. For a person who had sex last night he's wound tighter than a clock.

Trapper falls into his cot and purposely avoids looking at anything except the still -- it's the only thing that seems safe right now, because there are too many of Frank’s things around, and he can't bring himself to look at Hawkeye either.

“And what's your side of the story?”

He can hear Hawkeye sit in the chair beside his bed and he can't help but look over at him. 

“Nothing I say is going to change the fact that I slept with him,” Hawkeye says softly. He's already beginning to slur and Trapper has to look at him, because he realises that Hawkeye must have already had a few drinks before he even left the Swamp to shower. He's already pouring himself another from the pitcher and he's unsure when it went from full to nearly empty.

“You lied to me,” Trapper says evenly, trying to keep his face as neutral as possible even as his fingers tighten on the glass in his hand and he fantasizes about chucking it as hard as he can at the still. But he doesn't. He takes a deep breath and sets the glass full of gin on the edge of the table. Only the shake of his hand belies his anger.

“You said you would never let him kiss you,” Trapper continues, “but I guess the joke’s on me ‘cause you never said anything about not letting him fuck you.”

“I didn't _want_ to sleep with him,” Hawkeye mumbles angrily around the lip of his glass.

“Then why did you?”

“Because I feel guilty!” Hawkeye shouts. He tries to get to his feet but fails, he's too leaden with drink for his legs to work and he eventually gives up, falling back, defeated by himself. “Because what happened to him is my fault.”

He folds in on himself and Trapper doesn't feel angry anymore, just exhausted and disappointed.

“You didn't make Sutton do what he did,” Trapper says.

“No, but I was the reason Frank was out there that night. Doesn't that deserve some blame? If I had just let him kiss me, none of it would have happened.”

“What are you gonna do, Hawkeye? Let Frank fuck away the guilt?”

“If I have to.”

“Jesus, Hawk. Frank's the one that got raped, but you're actin’ like you're the one needin’ help.”

“I don't need help,” Hawkeye says, desperation clear. “I need redemption.”

But he did need help, and Trapper hadn't been there to give it.

Fuck, how long had Hawkeye felt like this? Since the night it happened? Trapper hadn't even noticed something was wrong. He had thought all about Hawkeye’s betrayal, but nothing about his own. They were supposed to love each other. Had those just been words?

Is fucking Frank just a way for Hawkeye to self-medicate, the way the gin is for them both? 

“I thought…” Hawkeye says, before he stops and looks dour. He downs the last of the pitcher of martinis, but it doesn't seem to ease his troubled mind.

“You thought what?” Trapper prompts.

“It was just sex. It didn't mean anything to me. I thought that if I gave Frank what he wanted that maybe I would feel like I had done something to help. That maybe I'd feel less responsible.”

“Do you?”

“I don't know,” he says. “I let him fuck me and --” he looks lost and tired and Trapper can't resist the urge any longer to hold him. He grips Hawkeye's arm and drags him over to the bed and Hawkeye stumbles, but this time when he gets up his legs hold him and soon he's half lying across Trapper's chest, their legs tangled together.

“He didn't know what he was doing,” Hawkeye continues after a moment of Trapper drawing soothing circles on his back. “It hurt, but I let him, and afterwards I didn't feel anything.”

“So it didn't work,” Trapper says, pressing a kiss to the top of Hawkeye's head. “You'll try somethin’ else.”

“No, it did work,” Hawkeye says, his voice rumbling in his chest and vibrating across Trapper's skin. He can feel the heat of Hawkeye's breath even through his shirt and it's oddly soothing. “For the first time since the attack I didn't hate myself. I felt a complete absence of everything. I just lay there and let him hold me while he slept. I think it was the first time he hadn't had a nightmare since it happened.”

Trapper's eyes are feeling heavy, his midnight post-op quickly catching up as they lie there together in a way they so rarely get to enjoy, with Hawkeye's warmth spreading through him.

“Hawkeye,” Trapper says, but his voice is starting to sound distant, even to his own ears. There's so much he wants to say, but he's running on empty and he doesn't have it in him today. Words of forgiveness, of understanding, but instead he settles on,

“I love you.”

He’ll never know if Hawkeye says it back.

\------

He doesn't react anymore when he wakes up and they're curled up together on Frank's cot. He tries to let it roll off his shoulders that Hawkeye seems to be Frank's new favorite pacifier, but it still hurts when he sees them pressed together, bare skin to bare skin beneath a pile of their combined blankets. He rarely sees Hawkeye in his own bed anymore, and when he does it looks so strange and foreign he has to look twice.

The weather has gotten colder, and it feels like the the air in the Swamp has all but frosted over anymore. 

He misses lying awake and staring across the tent at Hawkeye's sleeping face -- now he's just happy if he drifts off before he has to listen to the two of them exchange kisses in the dark. Sometimes that's all they do for hours, lie on his cot and kiss, and others…

He tries not to be around for anything else. He's gotten good at all night dates with nurses he's barely interested in and drinking coffee by himself in the mess tent -- anything to be out of the Swamp.

They're hardly even discreet at night anymore, and he doesn't know what hurts worse, listening to the hitch of breaths and rhythmic creak of Frank's cot when they think he's sleeping, or the fact that in the morning, Hawkeye wakes up, showers, and pretends none of it even happened. 

But he knows it does. Hawkeye looks more and more burnt-out every morning, the bruises under his eyes more prominent and his demeanor more and more irritable.

Trapper doesn't ask anymore about the guilt, doesn't ask whether what he does with Frank helps or hurts, but he can see without a doubt the path of self-destruction that Hawkeye has laid before himself.

“Good morning,” Hawkeye says with a wide smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes. His hair is freshly washed and Trapper knows they must have fucked last night because otherwise he wouldn't have bothered to shower before breakfast. 

He doesn't understand why Hawkeye continues to crawl into Frank's bed when he feels the need to scrub himself clean of Frank's touch in the morning. 

“What's so good about it?” Trapper mumbles, pushing around powdered eggs, some sort of dark green mush that Trapper is pretty sure is a rehash of last night's dinner and bacon that's beginning to spoil.

The coffee is the only thing edible this morning and even that's more gritty and bitter than usual.

“I see the cook has outdone himself this morning,” Hawkeye says dryly.

“I'm afraid to ask what it is,” Trapper says, holding up his fork with the green stuff dripping off it. “It looks like they fished it outta the latrine this morning.”

Hawkeye grimaces as he stares down at Trapper’s tray.

“Suddenly I'm not hungry anymore.”

Trapper continues to push the food around his plate, his left hand on the other side of the metal tray. He isn't surprised when Hawkeye lays his own hand on the table very close to his. No one's around, but it isn't safe to be any more open than this.

Hawk's fingers bump against the side of his hand and he can tell that Hawkeye wants to thread their fingers together, but he doesn't dare -- not here in the mess tent. Instead, Trapper lets his pinky caress Hawkeye's wrist. No one is likely to notice the touch, and if they did, he could quickly and easily pull away, even laugh it off as something accidental.

“It's movie night tonight,” Hawkeye says after a moment, drawing his eyes away from their hands.

“You askin’ me on a date?” Trapper asks, amused. They never called movie night a date before, but the truth is, getting to sit that close to each other in the dark without anyone questioning it—that's about as close as they can get to a date here without drawing some unwanted attention.

“No, I'm asking you to play doctor in the supply room with me while the rest of the camp is busy.”

He's a little shocked considering how much he's been getting from Frank lately, but Hawkeye did always have a one thing on his mind, so it's not really the surprise it should be. If Hawkeye wanted him, he couldn't stay away -- it's how the whole thing between them started in the first place. He was never good at resisting Hawkeye's kissably soft lips or pretty blue eyes.

Even though he spent most of their time alone under Trapper, there was no question about who was in charge. 

He's about to agree, when Father Mulcahy appears by Hawkeye's side.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks, and Hawkeye pulls his hand away from his as he makes a gesture for the priest to sit down.

“No, Father, go right ahead.”

Trapper feels agitated by the appearance -- he and Hawkeye haven’t talked alone in days, and it had almost started to seem like things were normal between them again.

“Thank you, Hawkeye,” Father Mulcahy says politely before he digs a fork into the green stuff on his tray. “I know I'm supposed to be thankful for my daily bread, but I'm not quite sure that this qualifies as food.”

“I'm not sure anything served in this mess tent can be called food,” Hawkeye says.

Trapper can't help but notice that he hasn't excused himself to get breakfast yet. As horrible as this stuff is, it's not like there's much else, unless Hawk's been holding out on him. Even then Hawkeye didn't miss the chance to regal everyone with the overly detailed descriptions of his food smells.

“You not eatin’?” Trapper asks with concern as he forces himself to put a forkful of powdered eggs in his mouth. He doesn't know how the cook manages to make them both slimy and dry at the same time, but the ketchup at least disguises the taste.

“After seeing the menu, I think I'll just stick to coffee.”

He gets up anyway and wanders over to the breakfast line, and Trapper can't help but follow Hawkeye's line of vision as Frank walks in. Whether it's on purpose or not, Hawkeye gets in line behind him, elbow bumping Frank’s.

Hawkeye may look exhausted, but Frank looks more rested and cheery than Trapper has ever seen him before, like he is somehow sucking away Hawk's life force every time they fuck and gaining his power. It’s ludicrous, but his mind circles that idea for a moment.

Frank smiles at something Hawkeye says as they're filling their trays and Trapper can't help but feel a stab of jealousy. They weren't supposed to be like this during the day. He had learned to accept the lonely nights, but he didn't know if he could stand to watch this in the daylight.

“Are you okay, my son?” Father Mulcahy asks. “You look worried.” 

Trapper pulls his gaze away, feeling guilty about getting caught, but Father Mulcahy’s gaze finds Hawkeye's back before he looks at Trapper again.

“Do you believe in incubi?” 

He doesn't know what possesses him to ask, but it comes out before the thought is even half formed.

“Demons that feed on the sins of the flesh?”

Trapper's eyes wander back to Hawkeye against his will and Father Mulcahy’s follow.

“Ah,” he says knowingly. “I think you mean, succubi. They're of the female persuasion.”

“Yeah,” Trapper agrees half-heartedly. 

“Hawkeye does look a little worse for wear, doesn't he? Still, I'm sure he just needs some rest.”

“I dunno. He's been spending a lot of time on his back lately and it sure doesn't seem to help.”

Father Mulcahy doesn't seem to notice the meaning behind his words, and if Trapper thought he would have he wouldn't have said them.

“Perhaps what he needs is a little R&R in Tokyo,” Father Mulcahy says thoughtfully. 

Hawkeye has finally reached the coffee with a full tray and fills his mug. Trapper eyes the slump in his shoulders and down the long length of his back before he forces his eyes away lest he get caught in enemy territory.

Frank catches his wandering eyes and starts towards their table and Trapper has to look quickly away and will himself not to immediately jump up and leave.

\---------

Later, long after the movie has started, Trapper finds himself on his hands and knees on the floor of the supply tent. His pants and shorts are pulled down around his knees, his thighs spread as far as the cloth will allow as Hawkeye's fingers work him open.

He squeezes his eyes shut, sweat dripping down his nose as he bows his head and wills himself to relax. This isn't new, he's done this before, but he's never learned to love it like Hawkeye does. It feels good, but there's a certain level of discomfort that never seems goes away that has nothing to do with Hawkeye's talented fingers and everything to do with his own mind.

Or maybe today it has more to do with the knowledge that last night, those clever fingers had been giving pleasure to Frank. This had always seemed special to Trapper and he had thought it was to Hawkeye too, but there's a little voice that worms its way into his thoughts and fills him with doubts.

Did Hawkeye do this with Frank? Had Frank been in this position, laid out in front of Hawkeye? 

“I haven't,” Hawkeye says softly, and it takes him a moment to realize that Hawkeye had stopped and pulled his fingers free. “I've never done this with Frank.”

“How’d you know what I was thinkin’?” He cranes his neck to look back at Hawkeye. The collar of his shirt is ringed with sweat, his hair falling into his eyes; his face is flushed and smiling and Trapper realizes that it doesn't really matter what the hell else Hawkeye does, because he's here now.

Trapper's eyes slide back to the dusty floor as he takes a deep breath and tries to steady his nerves as he feels Hawkeye's cock, hard and hot, slide along his crack, but he doesn't push inside. Instead, Hawkeye pulls back and pushes his shirt up, laying a kiss on his shoulder blade before his hand wanders to his cock.

He's only half-hard, disturbing thoughts of Frank taking their toll, but Hawkeye pushes it out of his mind as his fingers circle his cock and tug. It isn't long before he's hard and pressing back against Hawkeye's cock, wishing that Hawk would just fuck him already.

“C’mon,” Trapper grunts, his breath short as Hawkeye strokes him. 

The disappointment he feels when Hawkeye's fingers fall away from his cock is only mild, because Hawkeye immediately grips his hip and he feels the head of Hawkeye's cock a blunt pressure against his hole before it slips inside, slowly filling him. Trapper breathes through the intrusion and soon Hawkeye's front is pressed tight against his back, the zipper of his pants biting into the bare skin as Hawkeye's lips find the back of his neck.

The pace Hawkeye sets is slow -- not like their usual frantic fucking, trying to quickly get off before they get caught -- and Trapper rolls his hips back to meet Hawkeye's, reveling in the sensation of being filled. 

Despite the position and the fact that they're still somewhat fully dressed this feels more like making love then anything he's ever done with his wife.

When he finally comes, with Hawkeye’s nimble fingers stroking him through it, he feels so vulnerable and desperate he isn't sure those aren't tears on his cheeks.

Afterwards, when clothes have been pulled back on and they're lying together on the wooden boards of the tent, propped against a shelf, he finally breaks.

His face is growing hot with embarrassment as the tears start to fill his eyes and they roll down his sweat soaked face in thin trails as his eyelashes attempt to bat them away. It's stupid. He doesn't even know why he's crying.

They aren't loud or particularly messy tears, but it doesn't take long for Hawkeye to notice that his hair is getting wet.

“What is it? What's wrong?” Hawkeye asks, sounding alarmed as he glances at Trapper.

His stomach churns and he can feel acid rising in his throat. He's felt it so often lately, and he knows what it means, he knows that he must have an ulcer eating away at his stomach, but he forces himself to swallow down the bile and wipe away his tears.

He hasn't cried in years, but maybe that's a testament to how much he cares about Hawkeye. 

“Is it about Frank?” Hawkeye asks softly, turning in Trapper’s arms to look up at his face after the silence stretches on.

Hawkeye looks worried and worn out, grey standing out against jet black that he's never noticed before. There are dark circles under his eyes, and Trapper isn't sure when the last time he slept more than a few hours was. 

“No,” Trapper finally manages after a moment. “It's about you, you idiot.”

Hawkeye looks surprised and pulls back, separating himself from Trapper. 

He feels lost, like he's suddenly been cut free of a tether and he's just free falling and Hawkeye's watching him, looking confused and a little helpless.

“There's nothing wrong with me,” Hawkeye insists. But there is. There's something so wrong but Hawkeye can't seem to see what everyone else does.

“You're killing yourself.”

“I'm tired and sore, but I'm not dying, Trap.”

Hawkeye's protests roll over him like water over a duck’s back.

“You're exhausted, Hawk. We can all see it,” Trapper says, his voice rough with emotion, but at least the tears have stopped. Now he's just angry, angry at Frank, angry at Hawkeye, angry at the war that's forced this shitty situation on them. “He's using you up and when he's done, when there's nothin’ left but a shell, he's gonna throw you away. How can you expect me to watch you destroy yourself?”

“Frank needs me,” Hawkeye says, but for the briefest moment uncertainty flicks across his features.

Trapper has the feeling that for some reason Hawkeye needs Frank more than Frank needs him. He can't begin to understand it, but has to accept it. 

He _has to_ , for the sake of his own sanity, because one of them needs to make it through this war in one piece and it sure as hell isn't going to be Hawkeye. 

‘What about the fact that _I_ need you?’ he wants to say. 

The words don't come out, though, they stick in his throat and he forces himself to swallow around them until eventually they shatter into tiny shards of worry that cut into the lining of his stomach.

He doesn't contradict Hawkeye, he doesn't say anything, just pulls Hawkeye's body into his arms and rests his chin on top of his head.

“I love you,” Hawkeye says quietly after a long moment of awkward silence. 

Trapper doesn't return the words, his mind adrift as he holds Hawkeye, who suddenly feels small and fragile within his arms.

It's funny, but the words don't sound as convincing today as they did a week ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be slower as I still have a lot to write. Sorry.
> 
> In the meantime, for other MASH and Wayne Rogers goodies, follow me on Tumblr at: captaincaptaincupcakethings


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I had planned on finishing this fic for WIP big bang, but 20k later and I haven't even finished chapter 6. Figured I just post and keep on chipping away. 
> 
> I wrote the first two scenes before anything else on this fic so they're a bit... idk.

There is a set of lips making themselves at home on the back of his neck and a hand pushing under his shirt, but Hawkeye doesn't even have it in him to move. 

He's beyond exhausted, and even the warmth of Trapper's hand against his bare skin can't rouse him from his bed. It's not exactly comfortable, but he's too tired to complain at the moment.

Ever since Trapper proved he’s less than okay with what's transpiring between him and Frank, he's backed off, only having sex with Frank when it seems unavoidable. But just talking to Frank has always seemed like so much work; being intimate with him is draining him quicker than the grueling OR sessions they endure during a push.

“Not tonight, honey, I have a headache,” he mutters before he roughly pushes Trapper's hand away.

For someone that was so concerned about his health two weeks ago, Trapper doesn't seem to care now when he's finally trying to catch up on much needed sleep.

“C’mon, Hawk. It's been a week since I've even been alone with you. I'm startin’ to feel neglected.”

Hawkeye flops over on his back to look over at where Trapper kneels on the floor beside his cot. There is lust and uncertainty in Trapper's hazel eyes, and usually that's all it takes for him to give in, but he can't even bring himself to feel even an ounce of arousal. His sex drive -- which is usually always idling -- never even makes it out of the garage. He wants to feel guilty about that -- after all, he actually _loves_ this idiot -- but instead he just feels a numbness that has nothing to do with the last fifteen hours they spent in surgery.

“I never thought I'd say this, Trap, but I'm actually sick of sex.” He tries to laugh, but it sticks in his throat as he wonders if it's sex he's sick of, or playing therapist between the sheets. 

Sex has always been something that he thought of as a pleasure, but somehow Frank made it seem like a tedious chore. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Frank’s dull personality somehow makes everything lose its luster when he’s involved.

Trapper's eyes go wide with surprise before he laughs long and loud like it's the best joke he's ever heard.

“You? Sick of sex?” He's still laughing, but a note of bitterness has seeped in around the edges, giving his normally friendly chuckle a sharpness.

“I've never met someone more obsessed with it,” Trapper remarks. The bite in his words doesn't go unnoticed.“You sure you're not comin’ down with somethin’?”

Hawkeye isn't laughing, his teeth grinding in annoyance as Trapper presses his palm to Hawkeye's forehead. He looks caught between concern and agitation and Hawkeye wonders if his own irritation at Trapper's attitude is showing through. He brushes Trapper's hand away from his forehead with a roll of his eyes and an exasperated sigh.

“Between _you_ , Frank, and the nurses I'm tapped out,” Hawkeye complains. Trapper's nostrils flare at the emphasis and the insinuation it's wrapped in, but he doesn't comment, just frowns at Hawkeye, his eyebrows knitting together.

“I came yesterday and nothing came out -- just a little flag that said ‘bang!’”

“So what?” Trapper snipes.

It's clear that this is going to escalate into a fight at any second if he doesn't get a grip on his own emotions, because it's obvious that Trapper's already lost his.

“Give up the nurses for a bit,” Trapper says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “They're all lookin’ tired from runnin’ from ya every day anyway. They could use the break.”

It's a familiar argument between them. Since their relationship shifted from friends that occasionally fuck to something with feelings, it's one that's come up a lot, but this doesn't feel like their usual half-serious dispute.

The truth is, Trapper is just as guilty as he is, the difference is Hawkeye doesn't sleep with most of the girls he goes out with.

Not that he's ever been honest about that fact. They've said ‘I love you,’ but talking about that makes the relationship between them feel too real, too serious, and he knows it will make it hurt too much when the inevitable happens -- and Trapper certainly likes to remind him that he has a wife waiting for him back home.

Chasing the nurses -- even if most of the time it was an empty promise from both parties -- is the only thing that keeps him alive and sane in the OR most days. It's not like he can flirt openly with Trapper in there. They have their moments, sure, but as far as everyone else is concerned it's just Hawk and Trap being their usual not-so-serious selves.

“Blasphemy,” Hawkeye says. It isn't hard to muster up an offended look.

“Then the obvious one,” Trapper says, seriously. “Dump ol’ Ferret-Face.”

They're getting to the heart of the matter now. He knows it's been weighing on Trapper; his physical relationship with Frank weighs on his own mind.

There's internal struggle and a little stab of guilt that goes through him at the mention of Frank that he doesn't think Trapper would understand. He's tried to explain, but he can never seem to find the right words to describe the confusing mess of feelings he gets whenever Frank stares up at him at night with wide, scared eyes. 

The sex helps take Frank's mind off of what happened, he can tell, because Frank is so different afterwards, relaxed and calm and Hawkeye doesn't know what would happen if it was suddenly taken away from him.

“I would,” Hawkeye says carefully, “but I'm afraid of what will happen to Frank if he didn't have me for an outlet anymore.”

Trapper gives a derisive snort at that, but keeps his mouth shut.

“The whole camp has been more peaceful the last month,” Hawkeye continues, and he knows Trapper can't argue with what he says. “If I screw it up now everyone will hate me. You know, Frank hasn't tried to have anyone court-martialed in two weeks? I'm doing this place a service.”

Trapper sighs and his anger seems to escape with it as he visibly deflates.

“How could they hate ya, Hawk?” he asks quietly. “No one even knows you're the reason.”

“Fine, then I'll hate me.”

When Trapper laughs it’s a dark, humorless sound.

“I thought you already did.”

Hawkeye rolls his eyes, and pretends that Trapper didn't just reveal his worst kept secret. He hasn't ever been good at keeping things from Trapper, and he's sure that Trapper has to know about the self-loathing brought on by the guilt he's been feeling for months, because sometimes he has the feeling that Trapper can read him too well.

“I have lousy taste in men.”

“C’mon, Hawk. There's someone in this camp that you're forgettin’ that could make Frank drop you faster than we toss our cookies after breakfast.” He pauses as if to give a moment of silence for their long since dead taste buds, then gives Hawkeye a meaningful look. “Someone with the same lousy taste in men.”

Hawkeye sits up and returns Trapper's wide grin.

“Hot Lips,” they say in unison.

\-----

Hot Lips isn't hard to find. Since she and Frank parted ways two months ago, Margaret spends most of her time either in her tent or in post-op. It seems that despite the fact that they were trying to keep their relationship secret, they both were more likely to be found in public spaces together than without. 

Truth is, Hawkeye knows Margaret has been in a funk ever since she and Frank went on the outs, and weaseling his way into her tent in disguise of being a worried friend had not even been hard.

If she's trusting Hawkeye, then Margaret is definitely ready to cave.

“How could you do that to him, Margaret?”

Margaret looks upset, but she doesn't ask him to leave, so Hawkeye takes it as a good sign that a little applied pressure and she'll break.

“You wouldn't understand,” she says with a deep frown. 

She wraps her arms around herself, and if Hawkeye wasn't so intent on trying to get her and Frank back together -- and hopefully out of his life -- he may have offered her his arms and body for comfort. Despite what he told Trapper, he could make an exception to his exhaustion for the major -- after all, he'd been trying since about the moment he saw her to get her into the sack with him and the fact that she has resisted his charms and flirtation this long only makes the anticipation worse. As much as she tries to fight it, Hawkeye can see the looks that she gives both him and Trapper and he knows it's inevitable that she'll give into one of them — or if they're lucky, both. Trapper had always been a lot more into the idea of a threeway than Hawkeye, but he can't deny that the idea of Margaret between them intrigues him.

But he forces himself to resist the temptation to push her into something she'll regret when she’s obviously feeling vulnerable (which is normally a good thing for him, but right now he's here on a mission of utmost importance) and carries on.

This is too important to be distracted by how soft and warm Margaret’s body looks. 

“No, you don't understand. Frank didn't have a choice in what happened to him. That guy didn't do it because he thought Frank would have a good time. He did it because he was angry and wanted to humiliate him. He should have just asked you to do it. You did a much better job.”

“Don't you think I know that?” Margaret looks like someone slapped her, her face flushed and her eyes teary. “I regretted it as soon as it was out of my mouth, but I was afraid.”

“Of what? That maybe what happened might open Frank's eyes and make him suddenly realize he wants to sleep with men?” 

There was a bit too much truth there and the words don't quite leave as smoothly as usual. 

Although Hawkeye knows for a fact that Frank had thought about it before, the assault had certainly been a catalyst of sorts. Without copious amounts of alcohol, Frank likely would have kept that part of his sexuality buried until the day he died. And Hawkeye would have preferred to keep it that way.

“Of course not!” Margaret says fiercely, like the idea offends her -- which, knowing how G.I. she is, it probably does, although maybe not in the same personal way it used to offend the sexually repressed Frank Burns. “I don't have to tell you anything.”

“No, you don't,” Hawkeye agrees. “But don't you think you owe an explanation to Frank?”

“Why do you care? You don't even like him.”

Obviously he can't tell her why he's so desperate to pawn Frank off on her, but it doesn't hurt to throw a little truth out for her.

“I hate it when you and Dad fight. Think of the children, Margaret.”

The joke doesn't win him any favors. She frowns deeper.

“Just admit it,” she accuses, “you just feel sorry for him.”

“Of _course_ I feel sorry for him,” Hawkeye says honestly, “but that's not why I'm here.”

“Why then?”

“Because I'm tired of being your replacement,” he tells her and tries not to remind himself of all the things he's done for Frank since Margaret dumped him because they simultaneously arouse him and make his skin crawl. “I'm tired of being the one that has to sit with him after his nightmares and of being the one to hold his hand and tell him everything will be alright. After everything that's happened doesn't he deserve to wake up and see the face of someone he likes? He barely tolerates Trapper and me on a good day and right now, we're all he has after one of the worst of his life.”

There's dead silence in the tent, and there's a flicker of emotion that Hawkeye relates to all too well: guilt.

“You're right,” she admits quietly and it's obvious by the slump of her shoulders that she's defeated.

“So what's stopping you?”

“I've always worried about myself or one of my nurses being a target for rape. I never thought --” she looks truly stricken as she draws in a shaking breath and Hawkeye can tell she's been barely holding it together since she found out -- she had mentioned it once or twice in passing, but he hadn't given it much attention until now. This wasn't just some fear that lingered at the back of her mind, maybe she thought of it as an inevitable part of war. If he were a different sort of person he might feel guilty for all the jokes about it, but the truth is, after it happened to Frank, it hasn't been far from his mind either.

“If it can happen to Frank, what hope do we have?”

Hawkeye pulls her close, and she goes easily, her arms encircling his waist as Hawkeye buries his face in her hair. She smells like sweat and antiseptic, but it isn't altogether unpleasant and she fits nicely against his body. If the circumstances were different, if he was here for any other reason, he probably would have used this current position to his advantage, but the idea dies before it can ever fully form and instead he rests his chin against the top of her head and tries to remember why he's here.

“This damn war,” Hawkeye murmurs and he's gearing up for a long rant when Margaret's fingers dig into his shoulder blades, his thoughts falling away as her tears wet the front of his shirt. Instead, he shuts his mouth and rubs her back until she stops shaking.

“Thanks, Pierce,” she says after she collects herself, her face hard again as she pulls away from him and wipes her eyes. “You're a good friend.”

Seeing her vulnerable makes her seem nearly human and for a minute Hawkeye really wishes things could be different, that Frank had never had his way with either of them and that Margaret was a little less married to the army, because for a minute it really felt like they could be friends.

But, Frank did weasel his way into both their lives, and Margaret is straightening her uniform and it's like everything is suddenly back to how it's always been.

“I could be a better friend, Major, if you'd let me do a little brass polishing with you.”

Margaret wrenches away from him and for a moment Hawkeye actually feels a stab of regret as she looks appalled. The feeling doesn't last though, as she sputters through a familiar,

“W-why you--!”

“I'd settle for fondling your clusters.”

As he leers suggestively at her and she shoves him towards the door he notices there’s a lot less heat behind her actions than usual.

“Get out, Pierce.” 

She doesn't even flare her nostrils or stomp her foot. He's almost disappointed.

\------

Hawkeye removes his bloodstained gown before he drops it in the laundry and stretches his back until he feels a satisfying pop.

Despite the long hours, the tension in the OR has lessened now that Frank and Margaret are on speaking terms again (and probably a lot more if that love bite peeking out of Margaret's turtleneck says anything -- or just the fact that she's wearing a turtleneck when it's such a nice, warm day). He's pretty sure it's only a matter of time before the two of them are accusing him of breaking army regulations and filing reports together again.

Frank's nasally whine and Margaret's angry pleas for Henry to do his job had almost been like music to his ears. They were back to being one big dysfunctional family again.

He would try to remember to give himself a good pat on the back later.

Trapper elbows him and nods with a grin to the majors currently praising each other on a job well done. Frank preens and the whole scene is disgustingly normal for them. There's a twang of something in his chest that makes no sense and he tries to ignore it, or at least look away.

“I wanna go back to the Swamp and go to bed for a week!” Hawkeye announces as he stretches his arms above his head and smirks to himself when he catches Trapper’s eyes wandering to the sliver of belly that’s exposed. Apparently the double entendre in his words is not lost on Trapper, who gives him a slow once over before their eyes meet. Hawkeye doesn’t need to look very hard to see where the beginnings of an erection are tenting out the front of his scrub pants.

Trapper has never really had any shame when it came to just letting his erections fly, but Hawkeye supposes that his dick is big enough that he couldn’t exactly hide it and any guy who was hung like Trap would probably feel proud to show it off. While he’s not exactly ashamed of his own small size, Hawkeye learned early not to call too much attention to it and Trapper’s always polite enough to never mention it if he’s disappointed by Hawkeye’s lack of endowment. A few nurses had not been as polite, but in reality it probably meant more to them than to Trapper who’s taken his cock just a handful of times and was never overly fond of the idea in the first place -- even if he never said so. 

His eyes slide over to Frank again, conjuring up an image of Frank hard and naked against his will. Frank’s never made a mention of his cock or whether or not he was disappointed, and considering the way Frank treats him like some sort of Hot Lips substitute, maybe it’s because he’s never really noticed Hawkeye’s penis existed. 

Trapper’s hand brushes his, their knuckles bumping each other’s before Trapper’s fingers grasp his and pull him slightly towards the door and motions with his head and a meaningful look towards the supply tent.

Without Frank pawing at him the last few days, he’s actually welcoming that look of lust again and is starting to return it. Not that he’s ready to let Trapper take his pants off, but he wouldn’t mind necking with him in the supply tent -- he could maybe even tolerate a little light petting if Trapper were so inclined.

“Meet ya in ten?” Trap says quietly as his eyes dart around the room, but Frank and Margaret are disappearing out the door and Henry hasn’t come out of surgery so there’s really no one to hear other than them. 

Hawkeye’s hand tightens around Trapper’s fingers held in his palm. 

“Let me buy you a drink first,” Hawk says.

He doesn’t need to be drunk to have sex with Trapper, but after everything with Frank, it probably couldn’t hurt. And the truth is, he can't help but think about Frank and the strange feeling he got when he saw him and Margaret together just now and maybe that's the real reason he needs a drink so badly. He doesn't have feelings for Frank, he doesn't like Frank, but he's spent so much time fucking him the last couple of months that he feels _something_. Maybe it's just that for so long Frank felt like a responsibility to him and now that he's suddenly free he isn't sure what to do with himself.

Trapper seems disappointed, but releases Hawkeye’s hand to push the door open for them. Hawkeye brushes against him, closer than necessary as he leaves, hoping that Trapper won't take his need for a martini as Hawkeye trying to avoid him. 

Even though he doesn't understand what's going on in his own head half the time with Frank, he doesn't want Trapper to think that means Hawkeye loves him less than before Frank came between them. Even if they haven't had as much time together as they had hoped these days.

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees, but the hurt in his voice doesn’t escape Hawkeye’s notice and he doesn't understand how Trapper can make him feel so guilty with just two words that barely have any meaning.

Ever since Trapper's breakdown in the supply tent things had been different between them -- even Henry had noticed and commented on missed jokes and awkward silences that haven't been there since the day they met. Hawkeye hoped that with him no longer falling into Frank's bed things should be back to how they were, to the comfortable existence they had where they knew each other almost as well as they knew themselves.

Somewhere along the lines of trying to soothe his own troubled soul he'd broken Trapper's trust. He doesn't blame him for being angry or upset -- if he was in Trapper's shoes he didn't know if he could be so calm while watching Trapper with some other guy, especially someone as slimy as Frank. Honestly, he deserves to feel like a heel.

Trapper's been a saint and he's thankful that he's been so patient. Maybe letting Trapper fuck him won't solve their problems, but he owes it to him. Trapper's been asking for time alone for weeks, and maybe sex hadn't been on his mind, but Hawkeye thinks about it often.

Trapper’s hand comes down to his lower back, just a gentle pressure before it falls away. It's the smallest touch, but Hawkeye didn't realized how much he's missed the casual touches they've always exchanged and what they meant.

Even if Trapper is upset at him, the touch reassures him that he hasn't broken their relationship completely.

He offers Trapper a wide smile, and after a moment a tiny smile is returned. It's not much, but he'll take it.

“Maybe I'll take a raincheck on the martini.”

\------

The thing about Trapper is that once he has an erection, it doesn't just disappear with a cold shower or some unsexy thoughts. Hawkeye has learned fairly quickly that if Trapper struck out with a nurse -- before they started falling into bed together that is -- that Hawkeye would likely be treated to Trapper trying quietly to get his rocks off in his own bunk. Thankfully, Trapper hadn't been as good as he wanted to be at the quiet part and Hawkeye had a few months of intently listening to Trapper blow his load to file away for his own rainy-day masturbatory fantasies; although a cold shower and depressing thoughts always worked on him, getting himself off, especially to thoughts of his well-hung bunkmate, had always been much more fun. Although not as much fun as the first time he found himself in this position in front of Trapper.

Even after nearly a year this still seems like some sort of delirium.

Hawkeye unties the drawstring on Trapper’s scrubs with shaking fingers, Trapper’s fingers tangling in his hair a welcomed distraction from the fact that his knees are already aching and he hasn't even gotten Trap's cock out yet.

He eases down the flimsy white material until it bunches up and Trapper lifts his hips without direction so that Hawkeye can push them around his muscular thighs. They're hot and hard under his hands and he takes a moment to run his palms over the thick muscle before he leans forward and presses a kiss against the inside of his right one. Trapper spreads his legs and Hawkeye listens to the unsteady breaths that fall from Trapper's mouth as he presses open-mouthed kisses at the edge of his boxer shorts. 

“Hawk,” Trapper groans, his fingers tightening in Hawkeye's hair in an effort to direct him towards the erection straining his already too tight shorts -- not that Hawkeye minded that Trapper’s shorts were a tad too tight across his behind and especially the front, but he isn't sure how comfortable they are.

Hawkeye smirks and pulls away instead of obeying, knowing Trapper won't be upset at him for long because he has mercy and reaches up to pop the buttons at the waistband of his shorts. There's a long sigh of relief as Hawkeye pushes aside the fabric until it pools around Trapper’s legs, the fabric caught in the crease where thigh meets hips, and it's obvious that Trapper has no plans to lift his backside and help remove them now that Hawkeye is reaching for his cock. It's already dark with blood and standing at impressive attention, pearlescent drops wetting the tip and all that they’ve really done is share some kisses, and although they'd exchanged quite a bit of saliva with those kisses, Hawkeye barely has a semi. The sexual frustration that Trapper has been feeling has apparently taken a toll on him -- he has no doubt Trapper won't last more than a few minutes before he loses it.

He's not usually one to go off so quick, but Hawkeye gets the feeling Trapper hasn't knocked boots with as many nurses as he's led Hawkeye to believe. Either that, or Trapper is a lot more into this than he ever let on, despite telling Hawkeye when it first started that he'd never been interested in another guy before. Hawkeye didn't doubt those claims, but he wondered if maybe he's higher on the Kinsey scale than he thinks or if Hawkeye really is just that special to him that he could lose it just from thinking about Hawkeye’s mouth on him.

Pushing those thoughts out of his mind for a later conversation, he leans forward again and this time doesn't tease, just wraps his fist around the base of Trapper’s erection and takes the head into his mouth. It's been awhile since he's done this and Trapper catches him off guard, thrusting impatiently into his mouth before he can press his hand against his hip to still him. 

He pulls off with a cough and a gag, his throat working to stop anything from coming up as he releases Trapper's cock to rub his throat. He glares up at Trapper, who looks sheepish. 

“Sorry. Got excited.”

“That's okay. My lungs needed a good dusting off.”

He coughs a few more times, before he manages to get control of himself. It's not the first time a guy has done that to him, but it has been a while -- probably since he was an over-sexed teenager. Certainly he hadn't expected it to happen as an over-sexed adult. Clearly it had been a while for Trapper, either that or he isn't finding the nurses as satisfying as he used to.

“That was an assault with a deadly weapon. I should bring you up on charges.”

“I'd like to see Henry’s face when you file _that_ report,” Trapper says with a smirk and Hawkeye desperately wants to respond, but instead he rolls his eyes and lowers his head back to Trapper's lap, trying to ignore the tickle in his throat. His own erection has disappeared and he knows if he keeps responding his desire to do anything sexual will disappear as well.

Trapper doesn't argue when he takes the head back in his mouth again, this time with a firm hold on Trapper's hips -- although he can sense Trapper trying his damndest to keep them still.

He doesn't play around this time. His knees are hurting and his throat feels scratchy from the coughing fit and normally he'd enjoy taking Trapper down to the base, but he isn't sure his gag reflex is ready for another assault, so instead he wraps his fingers around Trapper's thick cock and jerks him slowly while he sucks.

Trapper doesn't seem too upset about the change in technique, his fingers finding Hawkeye's hair again -- he has no doubt he'll need to pat it down before he can leave the tent or it will be obvious what they did in here.

He hollows out his cheeks and takes a little more into his mouth, trying to work the underside with his tongue and is rewarded by a thick drop of precome against his taste buds. Pulling back a little, he tries not to gag again -- the mess tent food doesn't exactly make for the best tasting come.

There are soft words of encouragement coming now, a litany of ‘fuck’s and ‘yes’s that would have Hawkeye grinning if his mouth weren’t occupied elsewhere. His lips still tighten anyway and when he glances upwards under his lashes and sees that Trapper's head is tipped back and he's fallen back onto his elbow -- his fingers have loosened on his hair, but they linger as if afraid to lose the connection -- the erection that had wilted starts to come back to life. The skin peeking out the top of his scrub top is flushed and sweaty and it takes every bit of willpower he has not to pull off and lick across the line of his neck.

It won't be much longer. He's barely done anything and Trapper's already ready to lose it.

Cautiously letting go of his hip, Hawkeye jerks him faster, trying to find a rhythm as his head bobs and he reaches under to fondle his balls. Trapper spreads his thighs in encouragement, and if they had both been less impatient about getting his pants off Hawkeye probably would have considered letting his fingers slide under and behind. He may not particularly care for being fucked, but he never discouraged a little outside stimulation. But, Trapper's shorts block the way, so Hawkeye settles for gently rolling his balls in the palm of his hand instead.

That seems to be what pushes him over the edge, his hips bucking (thankfully shallowly this time), his breath ragged and there's a groan drawn out of him. He doesn't need to hear Trapper's murmur of, “Gonna come,” because he can sense it long before the bitter fluid begins to hit his tongue in short spurts and he's swallowing around him, taking him deeper, trying to get every drop.

He continues to suck until Trapper is soft in his mouth and he can tell by the hand that's returned to clutching at his hair that the over-stimulation is getting to be too much. He takes pity and pulls off, licking his lips for any remaining flecks of semen before he looks up at Trapper.

He looks wrecked, his thin shirt soaked through with sweat, his face flushed and his pupils so dilated his eyes look nearly black. This time when his eyes wander to those inviting droplets of sweat collected at the nape of his neck Hawkeye doesn't resist, using the edge of the cot to push himself onto his feet before he climbs into Trapper's lap and licks a long stripe across his exposed skin. It's salty against his tongue, but after what he just ingested its taste is almost pleasant. When the beads of sweat have been flicked away with broad strokes of his tongue, he sucks gently at the vein that throbs beneath Trapper's flesh. Although he knows he's going to leave a mark that anyone can see -- and probably beard burn as well, because despite Frank's constant nagging Hawkeye has never seen the point of shaving three times a day -- he doesn't stop. The idea of leaving his mark on Trapper is more appealing than it should be -- they've always been careful not to give themselves away -- and it sends a little thrill through him to see the slick, inflamed skin his mouth leaves behind. 

Trapper shivers and before he can register what's happening, Trapper's mouth is finding his and he's being pushed back onto the thin mattress, Trapper's strong body trapping him beneath. It catches him by surprise, but it's not an unpleasant one, and he wraps his arms around Trapper's neck and kisses him back.

Their tongues slide together hot and slick and Trapper doesn't miss a beat even as his hand reaches between them to unknot the drawstring on his pants. He easily works them open and reaches through the flap at the front of his shorts to draw out his dick. He isn't fully hard, in fact he's barely even semi-erect, and for a moment he's embarrassed when Trapper pulls away from his mouth and looks down, confused.

Trapper's hand dwarfs his small cock, the whole thing easily disappearing in Trapper's huge fist and Hawkeye absurdly thinks about how much bigger it looks in Frank's smaller hands. He shivers at the thought of Frank’s hand jerking him off, his gag reflex working even while he grows harder beneath Trapper's fingers.

Mortification goes through him, but Trapper doesn't seem to notice that he has to close his eyes and collect himself. He must be too focused on Hawkeye's cock suddenly hard in his hand, which is good because he isn't sure he can look Trapper in the eyes right now. 

He had been so happy to unload Frank onto Margaret, happy to be able to be with Trapper again, but even though Frank isn't with him he feels haunted by what they did. The sex wasn't supposed to mean anything, and the guilt he had felt when it first started had lessened to a bearable degree. So why did looking at Frank with Margaret -- looking at someone else making him happy -- fill him with such…. Jealousy? He hadn't recognized the feeling earlier, but now with thoughts of Frank's hands on him getting him off even if it's Trapper's doing the actual work, he can't pretend the sex was as meaningless as he thought.

He doesn't love Frank, he doesn't even like being in the same room as Frank, but maybe he had liked being needed. It was like practicing a different kind of medicine, one administered with his body that he had never experienced before and it had been as exhilarating as it was exhausting.

Trapper's mouth captures his again, and Hawkeye's forced back to the present, back to Trapper's fist wrapped around him, pumping his cock, his thumb pushing back his foreskin to rub precome over the head. 

Trapper's been nothing but patient with him through everything and Hawkeye can't even stay mentally present long enough for a quick handjob. 

Exorcising all thoughts of Frank from his mind, he focuses on the feeling of Trapper's skillful fingers and of Trapper's mouth open and moving against his own. His lips are soft and when his tongue pushes into Hawkeye's mouth he tries to greet it with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. Their teeth click together when Hawkeye's hips leave the mattress, thrusting eagerly into the tight circle of Trapper's fingers, and Hawkeye isn't surprised when his bottom lip bangs into the sharp edge of Trapper's teeth and splits open. He's too far lost in the sensations created by Trapper's fist to feel the wound, but the tang of blood hits his tongue before Trapper begins to lap at the cut and the taste is sharp and distracting. He prods at the broken skin with his tongue before Trapper's lips find his again, this time taking Hawkeye's already abused lip into his mouth and sucking until he can feel the quick throb of his heartbeat in the swollen and over sensitive flesh.

Trapper twists his wrist and Hawkeye's fingers tighten their grip on the back of Trapper's shirt. He can feel himself getting close, but Trapper's lips are blocking the words from coming out to give any sort of warning.

He comes, hot streaks flowing over Trapper's fingers and splashing over Trapper's clothed belly. It going to be obvious what the two of them were up to, but the thoughts of rumbled clothes and the hickey on Trapper's neck seem to drip out his ears as Trapper strokes him through his orgasm and after, until Hawkeye is squirming and desperate and shaking and all previous thoughts are gone. He's left with Trapper's exhausted laugh and the clueless look on his face when he looks down at his soiled hand like this has never happened to him before. 

Hawkeye takes his wrist in his hand and raises it to Trapper's mouth. He takes a long lick across his palm before he gags.

“That's disgusting, Hawk,” Trapper manages through watering eyes and a throat clearly rejecting the taste.

“And yours tastes like gumdrops and lollipops.”

“How can you swallow this stuff?” Trapper asks, pulling a face.

“I treat it like the food in the mess tent -- it's fine as long as it never hits my taste buds.”

Trapper laughs before he gets a mischievous look and Hawkeye can see a mile off the gears turning in his head as he glances between Hawkeye and his dirty hand.

“No, no,” Hawkeye starts, trying to wiggle his way from beneath Trapper and trying to turn himself over for an easier escape, though it's useless and he knows it. “No, no, don't even think it.”

He stops long to give Trapper a warning look, but it's just met with a wide grin before he wipes the drying come down the hem of Hawkeye's scrub top and across his bottom, even as he tries to get away, losing his pants in the scuffle. When he falls head first onto the floor -- upsetting a family of rats that had been having a nice dinner of cracker crumbs -- Trapper's laughing too hard to even help him, so he flops onto his back and lies there with his blood-caked boots up on the bed. His pants are tangled around the top of his boots and his dick hangs out the flap of his shorts and he knows how ridiculous he must look.

He starts to laugh too, Trapper's warm honey eyes staring into his and he feels a sort of contented glow flow through him.

\------

Hawkeye startles awake, his heart beating quick before he realizes the sound is just Frank knocking his helmet off its hook. He expects Frank to lie back in his bed and pretend it didn't happen, but instead he crosses the floor of the Swamp when he sees Hawkeye staring over at him.

“Hawk,” Frank whines quietly as he leans over Hawkeye's bed, his breath hot against the back of his neck.

He groans and wishes he had managed to sleep through the racket, because it's obvious now from Frank’s sniveling voice that he’d done it on purpose to wake him up. Trust Trapper to sleep through it. The North Koreans could drop a bomb right on the Swamp and Trapper wouldn't stir.

“What is it, Frank?” Hawkeye asks, annoyed.

He pulls the blanket closer around his ears, hoping cocooning himself in the scratchy wool might give Frank the signal that he doesn't want to talk, or anything else Frank might have planned.

“I just thought that maybe we could...” Frank looks meaningfully at him before he says almost shyly, “you know.”

“No, Frank. I don't know.”

He has a sinking feeling that he does though.

Frank’s fingertips wiggle their way under the blanket that is tucked around his neck so he can press his lipless mouth to the bare skin he exposes. Hawkeye closes his eyes, frustrated with the way his body reacts to the touch.

“You know,” Frank whispers low in his ear, “that thing we do at night when McIntyre’s sleeping. Our dirty little secret.” 

Frank presses another kiss to just under his ear, right at his jawline and Hawkeye hates the shiver that goes down his spine and straight to his dick. Trapper could barely get a rise out if him even with his hand wrapped around his cock and yet Frank can give him an erection with one tiny press of his non-lips. He feels betrayed by his own body, especially when Frank's fingers push the blanket down, exposing his shoulders to the cold air and pressing against his back and Hawkeye can't fight the screwed up part of his mind that wishes Frank’s hand would wander lower even as disgust ripples through him.

Hawkeye looks back at Frank, his neck aching with the strain of the position. 

“I thought you were back to sharing all your dirty little secrets with Hot Lips again.”

“Well, not _all_ my secrets,” Frank says flirtatiously, his head down as a sly little smile stretches across his lipless mouth. His fingers draw circles over his shoulder and wander down his arm and if Hawkeye hadn't been positive before that Frank was angling to do some heavy breathing with him than he certainly is now.

"What's wrong, Frank? Did Margaret have a headache?"

Frank pouts even as his hand continues to rub Hawkeye's shoulders and he couldn't look more like a kicked puppy if he tried. Hawkeye hates the way his heart squeezes in his chest before he gives in with a roll of his eyes and turns onto his back with a sigh to give Frank his full attention. The kicked puppy vanishes almost immediately and is replaced with the shy look from before.

"Margaret's too soft," he says, and it catches Hawkeye so far off-guard that he doesn't stop Frank from bending down and finding his lips. 

After a few seconds, when Frank's tongue prods at his lips, he pushes him back gently.

"She's a she, Frank. They're supposed to be soft. It's part of the appeal."

Frank nuzzles at his throat, mouth wet against his skin and Hawkeye tips his head backwards, making no move to stop Frank's hand that wanders down his chest towards the top of his boxer shorts. Hawkeye reaches down to unbutton his shorts so Frank's fingers can push below the waistband even as he hates himself for doing it but his cock is already hard and aching and he can see the inevitability of the situation.

"Maybe a she isn't what I want," Frank says, and it almost sounds daring and sure, nothing like what Hawkeye would expect to come out of Frank's mouth at the idea of something so unAmerican. Just a few months ago Hawkeye might have made a joke like that just to see Frank squirm, now here Frank is, with his hand wrapped around a sensitive bit of Hawkeye's anatomy and not a single thought spared for the flag or apple pie.

"Frank, you do realize that means you're a homosexual, don't you? The very unAmerican, unchristian perversion that you tried to get someone thrown out of the army for just a few months ago?"

Frank pulls away, and Hawkeye is almost upset that his hand stops stroking him, but the part of his brain that still has some sanity manages to work his hands and mouth enough to push Frank back until he's just crouched at the edge of the bed and only his hand, slowly caressing Hawkeye's hipbone in a distracting matter remains. 

"You can't salute the flag and have your way with me at the same time, Frank. It's a tad more hypocritical than even you can manage."

Frank's face pinches in anger that Hawkeye thinks is hardly justified. 

"I'm not like them, like those _perverts_ ," Frank all but spits out and Hawkeye can't help but laugh. He just wishes his dick would get the message that he didn't want this. " _I_ still like women." 

It's said so matter-of-factly that Hawkeye doesn't know if he could ever be brought to see reality. Hawkeye had suspected before Frank ever tried to kiss him that deep, deep down Frank had a secret he wanted to keep buried, that maybe he didn't even know he had -- he's spent so long trying to be on the straight and narrow (especially narrow in Frank's case), that he's become a little too good at repression. Maybe it's the fact that Hawkeye had gotten good at ferreting those closet-cases and curious guys like Trapper out over the years that it was intuition with Frank. He just had hoped the secret would be a different skeleton in his closet. He wishes he had ignored it, had never purposefully prodded and poked Frank enough that he dare to peek out the closet door, even just in curiosity.

"Besides," Frank says with a deep frown, "you're just as guilty as I am, Buster."

"I know your brain is usually preoccupied with malpractice, but I never denied being a homosexual nor have I ever been disparaging towards others who are."

"Well, that's easy for you, growing up with your Lefty father. I'll bet he didn't beat the fairy out of you when you were six because you liked to wear mommy's high heels."

Frank looks lost at the words and Hawkeye feels a little stab of all too familiar guilt. How Frank manages to be both the most pathetically pitiful and most self-righteous waste of oxygen Hawkeye ever met he'll never know, but he hates himself for feeling anything so kind towards Ferret-Face. But there it is, clawing his way up from his stomach to tighten in his chest. 

Frank gives the smallest little sniff and Hawkeye finally breaks.

"Frank," Hawkeye says, reaching down to draw Frank's hand away from where it has stalled on his hip and holds it in his hand, "that's terrible."

"Oh, it's okay," Frank says and it almost sounds cheery but there's an edge of mania to it that Hawkeye understands all too well. "He was just trying to build character in me -- to make me a man. Mommy says I owe the man I became to him, you know."

Hawkeye has no doubt that Frank's father had a significant impact on the man Frank became and a small masochistic part of him wanders down a dark path imagining another, less repressed, Frank that could admire the daring Klinger shows at wearing dresses and maybe even look on with envy. If Frank had more sense of self Hawkeye might wonder if Frank does sometimes wishes he could be Klinger. It makes Frank's obsession with army regulations and uniforms make a lot more sense and even more when the clumsily worded orders that sound a little too much like sexual innuendos are thrown into the pot. 

His body moves before he can even make a conscious decision, his hand dropping Frank's to capture his mouth before he can say anything else to pick away at Hawkeye's carefully constructed hatred of Frank. He'll never like Frank, he's certain of that, but he's beginning to spend a little too much time feeling sorry for Frank lately. It's getting his feelings all mixed up and he knows Frank is taking it as some sort of sign that Hawkeye might feel something differently -- that this might be more than the pity-fuck it is. Although the more he ends up on his back beneath Frank the more he begins to question that himself.

Frank does not protest Hawkeye's lips on his and Hawkeye can feel his mouth pull tight in a grin when he realizes that despite Hawkeye's protests he's still going to get what he wants. 

There's a tiny chuckle out of Frank before his hand is back inside Hawkeye's shorts and around his flagging erection. It only takes a few careful strokes of Frank's fingers before he's back to being hard, aching and disgusted with his own desperation for more.

Things progress quickly after that and before he knows it his shorts are in a wad on the Swamp floor and Frank is spreading his thighs so he can prod at Hawkeye's entrance. He isn't surprised at all that Frank already has a tube of surgical jelly in his eager hands knowing full well what a pushover Hawkeye would be. 

Sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and tilting his head back against the pillow to stare at the darkness that hides in the tents uppermost corners, he chews at the tender skin as his mind circles some unflattering names for himself. He has always joked that he isn't as easy as he seems, the problem is it's hardly true anymore. He used to have standards. He used to have some self-respect. Now here he is, on his back beneath Frank Burns for no other reason than the fact that his traitorous body seems to enjoy being here. 

Even whores don't enjoy sex with someone they despise. At least a whore collects a paycheck. The only thing he collects lately is more of Frank's baggage. 

The word slut rattles around in his brain for a few moments before the word seems to fall onto his tongue. It burns like poison and he has to choke it down so it doesn't spill from his lips as Frank pushes inside him. His body is as pliable as dough beneath Frank's touches and Hawkeye can't even pretend it's ever been so easy to be entered by any other man.

His mind and heart may belong to Trapper, but Frank has his body trained to sing to every off-key note that Frank delivers.

Thoughts scatter like cockroaches underfoot when Frank's lips find his and his hips settle hard against the inside of his thighs, a sure sign that Hawkeye has taken every inch that Frank has with no resistance.

As Frank begins to move, his hips slowly rocking forward, Hawkeye's head falls to the right and Frank's lips fall away from his. The pillow is scratchy under his cheek as the movements of Frank's thrusts shake the cot, his vision blurry as he traces the dark outline of Trapper's body beneath his blanket. Trapper's perfect features stand out against the inky darkness and there's an emptiness in Hawkeye's chest as he traces the outline of his lips. Just a few hours ago he had been exchanging saliva with the owner of those lips, but as hot as Trapper's mouth had been against his it was Frank's lipless kisses and forceful hands that had gotten him hard.

The thought makes him nauseous even as he wraps his legs around Frank's back and urges him forward. Frank complies, oblivious to the turmoil that rolls through Hawkeye, the disgust that brings bile to his throat even as he tries to swallow down on the noises of pleasure that escape around it. He forces his eyes away from Trapper's sleeping form and instead concentrates on the sweat glistening at Frank's temples and the hot puffs of breath against his cheeks as little sighing breaths tumble out of Frank's mouth. 

He closes his eyes and tries to forget the contented look on Frank's features or the look of betrayal he knows would be on Trapper's if he were awake. Sex with Frank used to make his mind empty, but now as Frank comes deep inside of him his mind replays the scene with Trapper in the supply tent, a feeling of unease settling in the pit of his stomach even as Frank's fingers bring him to completion.

Frank stopped blaming him for what happened weeks ago, and Hawkeye's guilt and Frank's nightmares had begun to ease, but somewhere their relationship had shifted and somewhere along the way, Hawkeye suddenly realizes, that for Frank this is no longer just sex.

Somehow Hawkeye has found himself deep in trouble and he doesn't know if it's even possible to dig himself out now. The worst part is, that there's a small part of him that doesn't want to.

Frank pulls out and collapses on top of him, a warm familiar weight that makes Hawkeye feel trapped, his breath crushed from his lungs as sweat breaks out across his body and his heart races in a way that has nothing to do with the physical exertion that Frank just put him through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is from Frank's POV. I'm sure you're all dying with anticipation for that train wreck. Lmao


End file.
